


A World of Their Own

by crescentmoontea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Evil Rhea (Fire Emblem), F/M, Mentioned Ashen Wolves Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Black Eagles Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Mentioned Golden Deer Students (Fire Emblem), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, cyril gets to grow and carve his own path, don't call it a golden route, eventual post-timeskip spoilers (all routes) but we're not there yet, some Canon Dialogue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescentmoontea/pseuds/crescentmoontea
Summary: “I’d defend you against anybody, Lady Rhea,” he replied, but for the first time since arriving at the monastery, he wasn’t sure he would.//An unlikely connection with Lysithea leads Cyril down a previously unimaginable path.
Relationships: Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 150
Kudos: 99





	1. same old same old

Cyril was right on time, as always, for his sunrise meeting with Lady Rhea. Weekday, weekend, holiday, didn’t matter -- for the past two years, he’d met with Lady Rhea every morning and did his job every day, whatever it turned out to be. He kept his head down, worked hard, ate another meal and slept another night at Garreg Mach. Never questioned Lady Rhea or the tasks she assigned him. Never wondered what she was working on when she was scribbling away in her notebook. It didn’t matter. 

All he needed to know was what she needed him to do. 

That day, it turned out she wanted his attention on the greenhouse. Something about visitors who were going to tour it, but the particulars didn’t matter to Cyril -- his job was to clean the greenhouse, so he’d clean the greenhouse. He gathered his tools and set off through the monastery, footsteps echoing through the still-empty hallways. Garreg Mach was at its calmest in the early mornings, before the shouts of students and knights filled the monastery. Cyril took a deep breath as he stepped outside and made his way towards the greenhouse. It was a decent morning and he planned to make the most of it. 

A smattering of trash was waiting for him, wafting about against the greenhouse’s wall -- no doubt dumped there by a student confusing the monastery grounds for the burnable trash chute. Typical. It made Cyril angry, to see the grounds he worked so hard to maintain treated with such disrespect. But then again, the monastery wasn’t the students’ home, wasn’t their sanctuary and refuge. It was just a stopover on their passage to nobility, to prestigious positions lording over territories full of commoners whose names they’d never know, to marriage and families of their own and continuing the cycle. Things that didn’t matter--couldn’t matter--to Cyril.

A door slammed on the nearby row of dormitories, and an angry, high-pitched voice ricocheted towards the greenhouse. Cyril turned and saw Lysithea pacing back and forth in front of her room, hurling a semi-intelligible stream of complaints at Professor Byleth. Something about the upcoming Battle of Eagle and Lion, Cyril figured after a few minutes of eavesdropping that he shouldn’t have indulged in. Whatever had upset Lysithea wasn’t his problem nor his business.

But it was surprisingly hard to tear his eyes and ears away from her. 

He had this problem a lot lately. 

Something about Lysithea just seemed different than the other students in this year’s class. For starters, she frequently talked to him, which only a few other students (and certainly none of the other nobles) ever bothered to do. And when the other students did approach him, ‘Almyra’ was usually the first word to fall out of their mouths. Lysithea hadn’t brought it up once.

It was kind of nice.

***

The very first time they talked beyond pleasantries, it had been about firewood, of all things. She came up behind him while he was surveying land in the forest and asked him what he was doing.

“I’m picking out logs to carry back and chop into firewood,” he’d answered, not sure what else he was supposed to say. He couldn’t fathom why this noble girl cared about what he was doing -- or why she was wandering around the forest with textbooks under her arm.

“You can’t expect to carry these all by yourself. Let me help,” she said, gingerly setting her books on the ground and looking at him expectantly. 

Cyril _hated it_ when others tried to do his work for him. He always had choice words for anyone who pitied him, saw him as less than capable, less than able to complete every facet of every task assigned to him without help. Didn’t they understand he didn’t have the _option_ of failure? Of asking for help? Whenever someone tried, he’d turn them down quickly and sharply. They’d take a step or two backwards, like they just couldn’t believe he didn’t want their condescending pity, shake their head, and walk away. 

But instead of demanding that Lysithea leave him alone, or declaring that it was his job and he was going to do it-- 

“Nah, I got it. I don’t want ya getting hurt. Logs are heavy sometimes.”

The words hung in the air between them for a moment; Cyril was mortified by his own voice. He didn’t want her getting _hurt_? Logs are _heavy sometimes_? 

“I’m well aware,” Lysithea giggled, a cute little sound that tickled the edges of Cyril’s ears. “You should accept the help being offered. I’m older and wiser -- I know best.”

Cyril scoffed at that one. He knew Lysithea was only fifteen, and Cyril was going to turn fifteen himself later in the moon -- less than a year’s difference hardly made her “older and wiser.” Cyril hated being treated like a child almost as much as he hated pity--as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t had the luxury of being a child in many years--so he really, really should have been fuming at her. 

Instead, inexplicably, he nodded and pointed at the scrawniest log in the area, which she immediately rushed to pick up; it took all of one step for it to tumble out of her shaky grip. Cyril dove for the log and barely managed to catch it before it landed on her toes. He scrambled to his feet and gave her a moment to collect herself, carrying the tiny log the rest of the way to the woodpile, steadfastly ignoring the heavy thumping in his chest and the smile trying to sneak onto his lips. 

Lysithea was picking a stray woodchip off her skirt when he returned, muttering to herself about not being able to walk in a straight line. “I feel foolish,” she admitted, eyes downcast.

 _Why do ya even care if you can carry a log or not?_ Cyril wanted to ask. _What kind of noble cares about something like that?_

But all he said was: “Well, if you’ve learned your lesson, I’m gonna go carry the other logs.”

Lysithea tried to talk him into resting, which after carrying only a few logs was a patently ridiculous suggestion; he declined, certain she'd use the opening to excuse herself from the conversation. But her expression changed again, and she offered to help carry the chopped wood instead. Cyril was absolutely baffled. Why was she trying so hard to spend time with him? 

“You know how rough firewood is? You’ll get splinters if ya carry it with your soft hands.” 

Lysithea’s soft hands balled into fists at her sides. “You can’t be serious!” 

_She’s real cute when she’s so insistent-- Shit. No. Stop it, Cyril, you can’t think like that about someone like her,_ he chided himself. _You have to shut whatever this is down. Now._

“You’re just not cut out for this kinda work,” Cyril said, his eyes falling on her hands again. “Look at your hands, they’re like a princess’s.”

Lysithea’s mouth fell open as Cyril froze.

_Shit._

He barely knew this girl. He couldn’t just say things like that to her. For all he knew, she’d go running back to the monastery and tell someone from her class what he’d said. What if they repeated the story to other classmates, with a little embellishment? Or, worse, what if they told one of the knights and they got the wrong idea about his intentions? He’d not only be in trouble for having someone do his work for him, not only for letting a student get injured doing his work for him, but for _hitting on a noble girl enrolled in the academy while she was doing his work for him while they were alone in a forest._

He was dead. Absolutely dead.

“No point in you learning to chop wood, is there? You don’t need to do that stuff.” Cyril scrambled to steer the conversation in a different direction, panicky pulse beating against the tight fabric wraps on his wrists. “You and me live in different worlds. There’s no point lowering yourself down into mine.”

At that, her face fell. Cyril felt like a log had struck his chest, even though what he’d said was absolutely true. He didn’t want anything to do with most of the nobles, and they didn’t want anything to do with him. All he let himself want was to live in the monastery, helping Lady Rhea with whatever she needed, repaying his unpayable debt day by day, task by task. He knew people looked at him funny for saying stuff like that, but they didn’t get it and he wasn’t going to try and explain it to them. 

Even though it kind of felt like Lysithea might not look at him funny at all. It didn’t matter. 

Couldn’t matter.

“Our worlds aren’t so different,” Lysithea shot back. She stared at Cyril, eyes flashing with defiance, hands locked on her hips. “We’re together right now, aren’t we?”

Hearing her say that made Cyril sad in a way he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “Sure, we live in the same place now, but that’s not gonna last forever--”

“Fine.” Lysithea cut him off. “You’re awfully stubborn. I’ll just study the terrain, then, like I came to do, and we can walk back together when you’re done.”

“If you say so,” Cyril said with a shrug, his will to argue exhausted. He headed off to grab the next batch of logs, finding Lysithea sitting cross-legged on the ground, nose in a textbook, when he returned. She didn’t look up at him, so he stood still for a moment, just looking at her. The late afternoon sun gave her white hair a pretty golden-pink glow, like the colors in a sunset. Her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheeks, and her nose wrinkled slightly as she studied a complicated-looking diagram--

***

Shouts from the fishing dock shattered Cyril’s daydream. He shook his head, realizing with horror just how long he’d been standing motionless, accidentally staring at Lysithea. Goddess, what was _wrong_ with him? He forced himself inside the greenhouse and started sweeping dirt and leaves from the floor. A crumpled piece of parchment came unlodged from behind the door, a mess of scribbles covering one side but blank on the other. A broken bit of graphite was wedged inside the ball. 

Cyril figured he might as well put it to use. 

He flattened the paper against the ground and attempted to sketch someone in an academy uniform throwing trash on the ground. He’d drop it in that advice box Professor Byleth set up in the cathedral later, he decided. Maybe the professor would give them an earful for him. Imagining that made him feel a little less angry about the trash, even brought a small smile to his face. He started humming to himself while he finished the sketch.

“Keepin’ it clean, sweepin’ it clean--”

“Hey, Cyril!” a familiar voice called out behind him. 

Cyril yelped, stood and whirled around, stuffed the paper scrap in his pocket with an awkward crinkle. “Lysithea!” 

“Were you drawing something?”

“No!” Cyril scrunched the stupid drawing even further into his pocket. “I mean, nah, just cleaning. Lady Rhea said she wanted the greenhouse extra clean.”

“Was it messy? Some people can be so careless.” Lysithea looked around. “It looks good now, though.”

“Nah, I still gotta scrub the floors and do some pruning and weeding.”

“Be careful when you prune the lilies.” Lysithea crossed the room to admire them, stroked a drooping white petal as she spoke. “They’re very delicate.” 

“Yeah, they really are, huh?” Cyril nodded. “Lady Rhea wears those in her hair so I gotta cut ‘em real careful for her, otherwise they don’t last long enough.”

This was the point in most of his conversations where people rolled their eyes and walked away, whispering to their companions as they retreated: something like _Cyril’s always talking about Lady Rhea. Does he think about anything else?_ or _Goddess, that weird kid’s on about Lady Rhea again. He’s so obsessed, it’s pathetic._

Cyril never corrected them. They could whisper about him all they wanted, but whenever he evoked Lady Rhea’s name, they left him alone. Her name reminded them who gave him the job they were interrupting. They could think whatever they wanted about him since their thoughts didn’t impact his ability to stay at Garreg Mach. Only she did--

“I wish I could wear flowers like her,” Lysithea sighed. “I’ve tried, but my hair won’t hold them. I’d have to weave them into a crown. And-- and I’d never do something so childish, of course!” 

That was definitely not the response Cyril expected. 

And a crown of lilies sounded pretty, not childish.

Cyril made himself busy weeding around a rosebush and tried to change the subject. “So what were you all upset about outside?”

“Oh. You heard me, did you?” Lysithea glared for a moment, but the expression didn’t last. “I just think it’s a waste of time to travel all the way to Bergliez territory for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. We could just hold the battle here!”

The thought of cleaning up after the mock battle on monastery grounds sent a shudder down Cyril’s limbs. He imagined the carnage the students would inflict: roughed up grass that would need tilling and re-seeding, broken weapons discarded on the ground, burn marks on the monastery’s walls from poorly aimed bursts of magic, bent arrows lodged in trees -- he’d be working all night and then some. 

“Maybe it’s more like a real battle if you’re not here?” he said instead.

“Maybe. But I still find it ridiculous. I dislike having my time wasted.” Lysithea picked up Cyril’s shears and snipped a lily blossom from its stem before turning on her heel to leave. “I guess I should let you work.”

 _You don’t have to leave yet_ , Cyril didn’t let himself say.

When she was gone, he let out a sigh and pruned the stem from her stolen bloom. 

“Lilies, huh?” he murmured to himself. “Real pretty. Never noticed before.”


	2. take a break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Impossible. It had almost looked like Lysithea’s whole expression changed at the drop of his name--"   
> //  
> Lysithea and Cyril take in a seminar and a meal with the professor.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when Cyril headed to the row of academy classrooms, bucket and sponge in hand. Weeks had passed since he’d last had time to scrub them down, and although Lady Rhea hadn’t asked him to, he wanted to do it anyway. He’d learned it was better to head these kinds of things off, anticipate her needs before she realized them. If he didn’t, she would just be upset with him later, whenever one of the pickier students or professors decided to make a report to Seteth. Because they would. Someone always did.

Cyril didn’t interact with most of the students and certainly didn’t feel right intruding on their official academy activities. Professor Byleth took him out on training battles with the knights, on the rare occasion Lady Rhea granted her permission, but it wasn’t like he was _in_ her class. He didn’t attend lectures or take the written exams the rest of them did, and he stayed away from the training grounds unless Shamir wanted to have their lessons there. 

As he entered the quad, Cyril was startled by a flurry of competing voices pouring from the alcoves. Strange. Since when did the three houses do anything but battle or goof off on Sundays? 

Out of sheer curiosity, he poked his head around the corner of the Black Eagles’ classroom. Catherine was laughing as she stood up front, Thunderbrand slung across her hip, silver gauntlets on her hands. Edelgard, Caspar, Petra, and Ferdinand were watching her with rapt attention; Linhardt and Professor Manuela were fast asleep; Hubert was skulking around the back of the room like some kind of sentry, eyes never leaving the back of Edelgard’s head.

Nope. Cyril leapt backwards before he was spotted. Too dangerous. Catherine would probably try to use him as the punching bag for an impromptu brawling demonstration. And if she didn’t, Hubert might turn Cyril to dust if he looked the wrong way at Edelgard. 

He checked the Blue Lions’ classroom next. Their lecturer turned out to be Seteth; he was eyeing his attendees with his typical stern-faced skepticism. A lot of the desks in the room were empty. Dimitri and Ingrid sat in the front row, leaning forward on their elbows. Sylvain nudged Ashe before throwing a wadded up paper ball at Ingrid’s head. Dedue caught it--guess it veered a little too close to Dimitri--then flung it back at Sylvain without even turning around.

Nope. Again. Cyril had no time for Seteth’s think-about-your-future nonsense that he would surely try to sprinkle into his lecture the second he saw Cyril walk into the room. He’d recently started doing that whenever he approached Cyril in the hallways: talking about how Cyril was still young, how his past was in the past, asking ridiculous questions about Cyril’s desires like they were something he could just _talk about_. It made Cyril want to crawl out of his skin. How could someone so close to Lady Rhea ask him those kinds of questions? How could someone like Seteth pretend to be so oblivious? 

Finally, he stuck his head into the Golden Deer classroom and saw his archery instructor, Shamir, bow aimed at a centipede making its way across Profesor Byleth’s desk. Cyril couldn’t resist pausing and watching for a moment. Shamir hadn’t taught him this trick yet. 

“Going for the kill,” she snarled as her arrow sprang forth, slicing the centipede clean in half and piercing the ornate ridging of the desk. Ignatz and Lysithea gasped from the front row. Claude and Leonie’s heads turned towards each other, exchanging glances like they’d seen Shamir do that before--

“Cyril! Hello!” Professor Byleth materialized in front of him while Shamir paused for effect. “I’m glad you decided to come. When I mentioned this to you the other day, you made a face and walked away.”

 _Shit._ Cyril had completely forgotten, but yep, she had mentioned this to him. 

Before he could try to escape, Professor Byleth held out a sheet of parchment and a graphite stick. He stared helplessly for a moment--did she honestly not see the bucket and sponge in his hands?--before realizing she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. 

“Thanks, Professor,” he said glumly, leaving his cleaning supplies outside the door and taking a seat in the back row. So long as no one stood behind him, Cyril was safe, at least -- no one would see his paper and realize he wasn’t capable of taking notes. He didn’t want to give the graphite back unused, lest the professor suspect something, so he started sketching flowers; first the little small ones he liked, then a crown of lilies worn by a faceless girl with long hair.

Despite his initial reticence, Cyril couldn’t deny that he enjoyed Shamir’s seminar. She was nothing like Catherine or Seteth, no trace of self-importance or condescension in her voice as she spoke. She was short and to the point, and openly, brazenly confident, standing in front of the students she privately called “noble brats” like she belonged there. 

Cyril wondered sometimes what that felt like. 

Shamir was an outsider at Garreg Mach just like him, and they’d earned their places the same way: debts to Lady Rhea. And much like Cyril, Shamir didn’t have anywhere to go if Lady Rhea kicked her out. That ever-present threat kept Cyril up at night, pushed him through his most exhausting, painful days -- but it didn’t seem to bother Shamir in the least. 

Cyril couldn’t let himself admit it, but a part of him almost admired her for it. 

After a few more demonstrations, Shamir packed up her bow and walked out of the classroom without saying goodbye, just like she did at the end of Cyril’s lessons. 

_Guess she’s like that with everybody_ , Cyril thought as he stifled a laugh. He stuffed his parchment into his pocket and left the graphite on his desk, ready to bolt before anyone tried to talk to him--

“Cyril, a moment?” 

_Damnit._

He turned to face Professor Byleth. “Do ya need me for something?” 

She leaned towards him, impossibly large eyes blinking expectantly. “Would you like to have tea?” 

Tea. Again. She’d already made him drink tea with her a couple weeks ago, some sweet fruit blend he didn’t even like in an ornate teapot that looked impossible to clean. The tea took forever to brew, forever-and-a-half to cool down, and there was so much awkward, silent staring. Cyril didn’t normally mind quiet, but he _hated_ being stared at, and the professor’s stare was so piercing, so unyielding, it drove even Cyril to fill the space between them with small talk. 

Besides. How did everyone have so much damn free time to dedicate to tea, anyway? 

“Sorry,” he said, trying to slip past her into the courtyard. “Too much work to do.” 

“A meal, then. Let’s have a late lunch.”

Cyril’s abandoned sponge and bucket mocked him from just beyond the doorway, soapsuds melted into an oil slick that skimmed the grey water. What was with these people and taking breaks? How exactly had he earned a break when he hadn’t even started his job? That was just being lazy -- and Cyril was _not_ lazy. He always started his job as soon as Lady Rhea dismissed him each morning, and tried his hardest not to stop until he absolutely had to. He usually only took dinner, and a late dinner at that, sometimes breakfast if the nice elderly chef tossed a piece of bread his way before anyone else arrived. But lunch? Lunchtime was working time. He didn’t understand these people and their utter lack of urgency. 

But judging by the look on Professor Byleth’s face, this wasn’t an invitation he could decline. “Okay, Professor. Long as we make it quick--”

“Oh, Lysithea! Do you have time for a meal?” the professor caught Lysithea by the arm as she walked past them. 

Cyril’s pulse quickened. 

Lysithea pulled her arm away with a pout. “I don’t have time. I need to study.”

“Please? Cyril and I would love your company.”

Cyril watched in amazement as Lysithea’s scowl vanished, a small grin spreading across her face in its place. “Well, if you insist.” 

As Byleth laughed, Lysithea’s pink eyes briefly locked with his before darting away.

 _Impossible_. It had almost looked like Lysithea’s whole expression changed at the drop of his name-- 

And was that a smirk on the professor’s face? 

Cyril stole a sideways glance at Professor Byleth as they walked. She was silently watching the two of them and yep, she was _definitely_ smirking. Cyril tried to shape his face back into a neutral expression by the time they reached the dining hall. He didn’t need the professor getting any wrong ideas about him and Lysithea. They were both only there because she had asked them to come. Thinking otherwise was ridiculous.

The chefs were serving something Cyril had never tried before -- Daphnel Stew. It looked pretty good, though maybe not quite to Lysithea’s tastes, if the grimace on her face when her portion was ladled meant anything. He’d once seen her devouring a piece of cake in the corner of the training grounds like it was some sort of secret, so maybe she only liked sweet foods or something.

They sat down at an empty table and Cyril dug in immediately. The thick broth of the stew felt like velvet as it coated the back of his throat. It almost made him want to take a break for lunch more often, if that was when they served stuff like this. 

“This is so good! Can I have seconds?” he exclaimed without thinking.

Lysithea eyed her stew suspiciously, eventually bringing a tiny bite to her lips. “Hmm. Perhaps a few too many vegetables, but it isn’t awful.” 

She kept eating, and her spoonfuls got bigger and bigger. Cyril wondered if she just didn’t want to admit she’d been wrong about how it would taste. 

The professor pushed her spoon around without lifting it. “How did you two find the lecture?”

“Quite compelling!” Lysithea said through a mouthful of stew. “Shamir is an excellent instructor. I think my aim with more delicate spells might improve.”

“I’m glad you chose to expand your horizons,” Byleth said with a nod. “If memory serves, weren’t you carrying around a training bow when you first enrolled here?”

Lysithea grimaced again. “That was when I thought weaponry was required here. That bow was way too heavy.” 

Cyril thought of her face as she lifted the not-very-heavy log in the forest; he tried and failed not to snicker and as he did, Lysithea kicked him under the table. She didn’t--couldn’t?--kick him hard enough to hurt, but without thinking, he fought back, catching Lysithea’s ankle with the toe of his loafer and pulled her leg towards him. She let out a giggle and the sound jolted him back to his senses; he turned his legs to pillars, straight and motionless, and tried not to think about the unexpected electricity skittering up and down his shins--

“What did you think, Cyril?”

“Uh, well,” Cyril stammered, forcing himself to focus on the professor, “Shamir’s my archery teacher already, but it was nice to see her explain stuff differently.” 

“I can imagine.” Byleth’s eyes closed for a moment. “You’re lucky to study under Shamir. A lot of my students are quite jealous.”

“Huh,” Cyril said with a shrug. That surprised him a little. It felt kind of nice knowing Shamir had picked him over the noble kids as her student. But he didn’t think saying that was a good idea, so he kept his lips pressed together in a line. 

Lysithea looked at him intently, but Cyril couldn’t quite read her expression, and the three ate in silence for a few minutes more. At least, Cyril and Lysithea ate. Professor Byleth barely touched her stew, claiming she’d had a late breakfast. Cyril wondered why she’d picked something as heavy as stew if that was the case. 

“I’m pleased the two of you could join me,” Byleth said as she rose from the table. “It was a pleasant meal.”

“I agree. Simple days like today are probably the ones you’ll think back on fondly. You know?” Lysithea made no move to follow, her gaze fixed on Cyril. 

Cyril liked that sentiment a lot. He didn’t get many simple days, or even simple moments, with how busy he was working for Lady Rhea. Sure, to anybody who asked him, he was quick to proclaim how much he liked working, liked his job, liked feeling needed. And he wasn’t lying, exactly, when he said those things.

But if he was real honest, sometimes it felt like he was running semi-conscious in a maze from sunup to sundown, always trying to find his way to the center, where another night’s sleep awaited him. Looking back wasn’t something he did, since all it ever made him do was mess up.

But looking back on simple moments sounded pretty nice. 

Especially when those simple moments were shared with someone who genuinely seemed to want him as a friend. 

And when that someone was awfully cute when she had a small drop of stew on the tip of her nose.

All he said, though, was: “Yeah. I think I know what ya mean.”


	3. tumbling into uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’d spilled one of his secrets and she could have drowned him in it; instead, she’d handed him a life preserver."  
> //  
> Lysithea learns Cyril's secret. Cyril tries to do something nice for Lysithea as a thank you.

Cyril slumped, exhausted, onto a bench in the far corner of the dining hall. His palms were pruned and his wrist-wraps soaked from hours of scrubbing and polishing every piece of silverware. There’d been a complaint recently, some big-shot knight who brought a snobby noble along for a meal and a pint, then whined to anyone who’d listen about the tarnish on his teaspoon. Predictably, this became Cyril’s problem; it was apparently much easier to give him an earful about the state of the cutlery than it was for anyone to stop and wonder why one moustache-twirling aristocrat’s opinion mattered so much, anyway--

 _No_. He had to stop thinking like that. Cyril knew better than to let himself indulge in spirals of bitterness and resentment, knew that being frustrated with his job wouldn’t change a damn thing about it -- but that day he was just so _tired_. It was the knights’ fault. Cyril usually managed a few hours' sleep each night in the library, once the last candles in the hallway were snuffed and the eerie whistle of the wind was the only sound echoing off the walls. But last night, a roundtable meeting in the knights’ hall had devolved into a late-night shouting match that was impossible to block out, no matter how many thick books he pressed against his ears. 

Evidently, Cyril had learned against his will, one of the holy knights was covertly dating a monk. A few days ago, the monk had disappeared. The jilted knight was spouting off about how she wouldn’t have just left him, his friends were laughing, and someone was loudly, sloppily pouring more pints of ale. But the knight doubled down, shouted out that he thought her disappearance was the church’s doing. Cyril froze, back flattened against a shelf of outdated encyclopedias. _Take it back_ , he wanted to call out. _You have to take that back_. 

The hall went silent a moment, then the shouting changed tone, gave way to hissing and spitting as the knight’s companions turned on him, calling him a heretic. And “heretic” wasn’t a word anyone at Garreg Mach threw around lightly. There was no place for heretics at Garreg Mach; Lady Rhea executed heretics, in the name of the Church of Seiros, without so much as a flicker of remorse. 

Professor Byleth and her students had to learn that lesson a few months back, Cyril remembered, after the Goddess’s Right of Rebirth catastrophe. He had watched the scene from the shadows of the cathedral as Seteth and Lady Rhea interrogated the captured conspirators from the Western Church while the whole class looked on in horror, as Lady Rhea narrowed her eyes, coiled the blue-flamed rage in her voice, and ordered their execution, as every student gasped and the professor staggered backwards--

“Hey!” a knight snarled as he approached Cyril, armor clanking with each rough step. Cyril flew to his feet as the knight shoved a folded square of parchment into his palms. “Go buy these things.”

Cyril nodded wordlessly, turning away from the knight and retreating to the opposite side of the dining hall as acid pooled in the hollows of his chest. The din of the room turned muffled and soft, like his ears had filled with cotton. 

_This can’t be happening._

He’d been doing so _well_ since arriving at Garreg Mach. He’d worked so hard to earn his place, wore his job as Lady Rhea’s personal attendant like armor; convinced himself he was safe as long as he was allowed to stay by her side. But Lady Rhea wasn’t going to want him around after this came out. He knew this day would come, he’d _always known this day would come_ , but he didn't think it'd come this soon--

He had never learned to read. 

His parents died right before he would have started school back in Almyra, so instead of enrolling, he enlisted. He had to eat. Had to find a new place to sleep. And enlisting meant a bed in the barracks and a guaranteed meal a day, meant invitations to victory feasts and shares of spoils recaptured from rogues and bandits. 

It also meant a lot of battles over conflicts Cyril didn’t understand and a lot of shouting from his commanders, meant the faces of bloody corpses constantly lurking behind his eyelids, meant the dying screams of enemies his age on an endless loop in his head. But he endured, he got by, even nurtured a little shred of hope that maybe someday things could be different. 

But that hope--all hope--was stolen the day the Goneril soldiers dragged him across the border. 

For as long as he’d lived in Fodlan, Cyril hid his illiteracy. But nothing could stay hidden forever. Everything he had built for himself at Garreg Mach was about to come crumbling down because of some _goddess-damned provisions_ that the knight probably could have gone and bought himself. Cyril stared hopelessly at the list, trying to make sense of the jumbled shapes that were, presumably, words and numbers--

A shadow fell over the parchment. 

“Hey, what are you looking at there?” Lysithea said, plucking the list from Cyril’s hands without waiting for so much as a hello. 

Cyril hoped she hadn’t noticed the parchment trembling before she’d taken it. 

At least this time he’d managed to stifle his yelp. 

She stared at the list for an impossibly short moment before firing off its contents like it was the easiest thing she’d ever read; when she finished, he felt her gaze settle against the top of his head like she was waiting for him to look up. Cyril was so ashamed he almost couldn’t do it. But he forced his eyes to meet hers, and-- 

Goddess, she had a pretty smile. Wow. 

“I was just asked to go out and buy the stuff on this list,” Cyril said after a too-long pause.

“Oh, that’s all?” Lysithea almost looked disappointed, the smile fading from her face as she turned to leave. “Sorry for interrupting in that case. This is kind of a one-person job, so I won’t bother you by offering aid--”

“You actually helped a lot just now, reading that list for me like you did,” Cyril admitted without thinking. Three apples, two bags of ointment, one piece of graphite. He had it memorized now thanks to her. 

Lysithea paused and turned back towards him, head tilted to the side, eyes brimming with curiosity. 

_Shit._

Cyril briefly considered making something up, but couldn’t think of anything believable. And Lysithea was smart. He’d overheard all kinds of talk from knights and students alike about her precocious intellect, her aptitude for magic and reason, her top-of-the-class grades. So she wasn’t going to believe something stupid like _I’ve never heard of apples before_ or _I have temporary amnesia from a training accident_. He had to trust her and hope that she wasn’t a gossip who would spread it around or use it against him. 

Hope that maybe she really was his friend. 

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anybody, ‘cause I’ve been trying to keep it a secret, but--” he paused, lowering his voice as his mouth went dry, “I don’t know how to read. So I wasn’t sure what to do with the list.” 

It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud. 

Lysithea’s brow furrowed, but her face betrayed no other feelings. “Is that so? But why do you keep it a secret?” 

Was she mocking him? Her voice didn’t sound cruel, and her eyes weren’t laughing, but Cyril couldn’t imagine anyone asking that question in good faith. Surely she knew how expendable he was. Surely she’d noticed the other orphans around the monastery, in positions more precarious than his because they hadn’t attached themselves to someone as powerful as Lady Rhea. Surely she could see the fear in his eyes as he looked at her-- 

“I’d hate it if anyone figured I wasn’t up to a job just ‘cause I couldn’t read,” Cyril said, opting to leave out the larger implications of what not being up to a job could mean for him. Maybe it was for the best if she didn’t realize the stakes he was up against. 

Lysithea paused a moment, nose wrinkling and eyes narrowing like she was studying a textbook. “You’re always welcome to call on me for help,” she offered, like it wasn’t a completely outlandish thing to say. 

And for the second time that day, Cyril heard himself speaking without thinking. “Thanks, I will.”

Lysithea looked directly into his eyes, smiled at him again before he could try and backtrack out of the agreement. “I really mean that. Anything you need.” 

Cyril’s heart fluttered at the intensity of her gaze. 

He had no idea how to respond to that. 

But he really liked the idea of spending more time with her. Of her maybe wanting to spend time with him, too.

“Okay,” he said with a nod. This didn’t make any sense; she had no reason to just reach her hand out to him like this. He’d spilled one of his secrets and she could have drowned him in it; instead, she’d handed him a life preserver. The tiniest little scrap of his long-crushed hope flickered to life somewhere deep in his chest. 

“Do you remember everything on the list?” she asked. “Need me to read it one more time for you?”

“That would be pretty helpful, actually,” Cyril lied. His memory was excellent--three apples, two bags of ointment, one piece of graphite--but he wasn’t about to say no to another few moments with her. 

Lysithea beamed at him as she read the list again, but Cyril was too busy watching how her smile changed as her lips formed different words to listen. 

When Lysithea handed him back the parchment, he swore it felt lighter. As he folded it back up, she spun on her heel and bolted towards the nirvana cake the professor and Dedue had just finished cooking behind the counter.

Cyril shook his head and forced himself out the door to do the shopping. 

“Lysithea’s not a good liar, is she?” he mumbled to himself as he headed out the door and down the stairs. 

_She knew I was in trouble right away_. The realization sent pangs of fear jolting through his chest and old, familiar aches into his tightly-wrapped wrists. Cyril hadn’t thought he was that transparent, but then again, he also wasn’t used to anyone looking at him all that closely. He turned left at the greenhouse and walked towards the gatekeeper and the traveling merchant stalls below, trying to put everything but the list out of his mind. 

Three apples, two bags of ointment, one piece of graphite. 

Lysithea’s smile. 

_Damnit_. 

He kept walking, past the blacksmith stall and down the winding path that led away from the monastery towards town, chastising himself for spending so much time thinking about this when it was obviously nothing.

Even if it didn’t feel like nothing.

Even if she hadn’t acted like it was nothing. 

Even if she looked real happy when she was helping him. 

_I think I’d like to see that smile again sometime--_

The town’s main street came into view and Cyril forced his mind back to the task at hand. Three apples, two bags of ointment, one piece of graphite. The stalls were crowded with late-afternoon shoppers, mothers balancing babies on their hips and overflowing baskets of bread in their arms, small children circling their skirts while fighting over skewers of meat. Cyril pushed past the crowds to reach his usual vendors, buying his wares quickly and without fuss. They didn’t even bother with the regular starting price anymore when they saw him coming, which was nice. They knew he’d just haggle them down.

He walked a little slower on the way back, lingering to watch a soldier and his partner break a cookie in half and share it in front of a baker’s stall. One of the little displays behind them, a tray with rows of colorful little tarts, caught Cyril’s eye. Sweets weren’t really his thing, but--

“How much for one of those?” he asked.

“100g for two,” the baker replied without turning around. 

“That’s not what I asked. How much for one?”

The gruff-looking baker turned and stared him down. “100g for two. They come in sets of two.”

“Then how come I count eleven left in your display?” Cyril shot back. “30g for the one in the back with the broken edge. No noble is gonna buy a broken one. You know them.”

“Fine, kid. Fine,” the baker conceded, taking the broken tart and putting it in a tiny paper box. “30g.” 

***

Back at the monastery, Cyril made himself busy until twilight started giving way to darkness. 

Lysithea lived in the farthest area of the first-floor dorms, on a platform with only three rooms on it -- Mercedes, that older girl he’d chatted with in the library a couple of times, and Leonie, who he knew by name but had never spoken to at all. As he approached, Cyril could see the glow of candles creeping out from beneath all three doors. Perfect. No one would walk by and see him there, and he wouldn’t linger anyway. He’d just knock on the door, hand her the box, say thank you, and run away before he accidentally said anything else. 

_Yeah. That’s as good a plan as any._

Cyril walked as quietly as possible over the creaky floorboards, took a deep breath, and knocked.

Silence. 

Panic overtook him, gripped his body and squeezed his veins. This was insane. What was he _thinking_? He shouldn’t be approaching her at _night_ , in her _room_. What if someone saw? What would they say? What would _she_ say? Cyril dropped the box like it was burning him and bolted off the platform, diving behind a barrel just as Lysithea opened the door. 

“Hello?” she called out in a shaky voice. “H-hello? Who’s there? Sh-show yourself!” 

_Oh shit._

This girl was terrified of ghosts. Cyril had seen her once, going on and on about how not-afraid of ghosts she was while practically hiding inside the professor’s cloak as they walked across the monastery at night. And she’d just opened up her door after an unexpected nighttime knock to find nothing but darkness staring back at her. He’d probably just terrified her out of a night of sleep instead of making her smile--

“Hm?” Lysithea said, voice shaking as she crouched down to pick up the box. She looked around once more, nervously, before disappearing back into her room and slamming the door. 

***

Cyril did his best to avoid Lysithea the next day, certain his face would crumple with guilt the second she caught sight of him. Lucky for him, most of the day’s work kept him away from the busier areas of the monastery, but his final task was scrubbing down the big stone staircase outside the dining hall. He couldn’t avoid people there, but at least she hadn't yet been among the crowds stepping around him. Maybe she was busy studying, or training with the professor or something. Maybe he could finish before she came up for dinner. As soon as he was done, he planned to retreat to the library, maybe wax down the study tables if there was still enough light--

“Hey Cyril! Almost done?” Lysithea sat down on the top step, clicking her heels against the stone. 

Cyril’s elbow knocked into his bucket, sending a waterfall of bubbles cascading down the steps. “Shit.”

Lysithea stifled a giggle. “Are you hungry? Let’s go eat.”

“Are ya sure you wanna eat with just me?” Cyril said, eyeing her with a suspicion he wished he didn’t feel. 

But if Lysithea noticed his wariness, it didn’t phase her. “I wouldn’t have asked you to join me if I didn’t want to. I don’t have time to waste on people whose company I don’t enjoy.” 

Cyril supposed he couldn’t refute that.

And there was definitely no arguing with that smile. 

“Okay then. I just need to hang this bucket up at the well.”

“Okay. Please be quick. I want to get there before all the sweets are gone. Hey, did you go there yesterday at all?” she asked, shouting as he crossed the cobblestones to the well and back. “Did you see what they were serving for dessert?”

“Nope.” Cyril wrung his rag out over the side of the wall and tucked it back into his belt. “Ready when you are.”

Lysithea bolted towards the dining hall so fast, Cyril had to jog to catch up with her. He needed to think of something else to say, something other than sweets. The further the conversation stayed away from sweets, the better--

“Oh! Peach sorbet! I love peach sorbet! Do you want to have that?” Lysithea ran to the counter without waiting for his answer and grabbed two silvery goblets of the iced treat. 

Cyril shook his head and laughed nervously, leading them to an empty table by the window. Lysithea started devouring hers before she even sat down, pushing Cyril’s across the table towards him without even looking up. Cyril stared at her, willing words to form on his tongue. What did people say when they shared meals with each other like this? Not that peach sorbet was a meal, really, but that was beside the point--

“Don’t you just love sweets?” Lysithea twirled her spoon in her hand. 

“Sweets are good, but I like heartier stuff, too,” Cyril said. “Roast pheasant with berry sauce, two fish saute, pickled rabbit, that kind of thing.” 

“I actually love all those, too!” she exclaimed. “We’ll have to eat them together sometime!”

Cyril opened his mouth to reply, but Lysithea didn’t pause to let him speak. 

“But nothing compares to sweets,” she continued, attacking her sorbet with renewed vigor. “Oh, speaking of sweets -- someone left me this delicious Noa fruit tart at my door last night. Hilda says I must have a secret admirer, although I think that’s ridiculous.”

“Hilda said that?!” Cyril’s voice cracked. He knew Hilda and Lysithea were in the same house, but he hadn’t realized they got along outside the classroom. Of all the nobles at Garreg Mach, Hilda was just about the last one Cyril wanted in his orbit. It was already hard enough talking to her when they crossed paths at the monastery, usually when she was conning him into doing her chores; he feared the day she noticed her family’s coat of arms on his old cleaning cloth. He couldn’t look at Hilda without hearing the angry voices of her relatives-- 

Lysithea tilted her head to the side, confusion curling the corners of her lips. She was probably about to ask him why he’d reacted that way to Hilda’s name, and Cyril really wasn’t ready for that conversation. “I mean,” he said, a little louder than intended, “I’ve never had a Noa fruit tart. Was it good?” 

“It was delicious! I’d never had one before either.” Lysithea grinned, and Cyril breathed a sigh of relief as she kept talking. “It was so light and fluffy, the curd was almost like a foam on your tongue! And the crust was so flaky and sweet!”

Cyril laughed--that was just about the longest description of a food he’d ever heard--and busied himself with finishing his sorbet as the two fell into silence. When he looked back up, Lysithea was staring at him, spoon abandoned in her empty bowl. 

“I should probably go study,” she said with a sigh.

Cyril nodded, standing to rise and clear their dishes. 

“Hey, wait a second!” she jumped from her seat and knocked her knuckles against his forearm. “Did you have anything you needed me to read for you?”

Cyril jumped at the unexpected touch. “Nah, not today. But I’ll come find ya next time I do.”

“I hope you will.” Lysithea smiled again. “This was nice. Thanks for eating with me.” 

She smiled again, plucked their bowls from his hands and started to turn away.

“Hey, about that tart?” Cyril said before he could second-guess himself, heart thumping into his bones like it was trying to break them. “Maybe somebody just wanted to say thanks. For keeping a secret for them. Somebody who couldn’t write ya a note to go along with the gift. Just a thought.”

“Cyril!" Lysithea exclaimed, beaming. “It was you? You didn’t have to--”

Cyril quickly cut her off. “It was nothing. Anyways, I’ll let ya get to studying now. See ya later!” He turned and bolted away before either of them could say anything else, dashing out the door towards the pond.


	4. let's make a deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea glared at him, withering and indignant. “Reading, obviously. You need to learn. And since I’m the only one who knows your secret, it falls to me to teach you.”
> 
> “Oh, Lysithea, that’s real nice, but I can’t ask ya to--”
> 
> “You didn’t ask,” Lysithea interrupted, frowning. “I’m telling you what I decided.”   
> //  
> Lysithea decides to teach Cyril to read.

Cyril _knew_ it was wrong, letting his focus wander from his job the way he had in recent weeks. It was short-sighted and foolishly sentimental to let himself gravitate towards the world of a noble who was graduating in less than a year. The thought of Garreg Mach without Lysithea pinched at Cyril’s ribcage, scraped at the scars splattered across his skin. But buried in the melancholy impermanence was an invitation to indulge, to stockpile as many of Lysithea’s smiles as he could before the monastery lost the soft glow of her light.

And while she smiled over meals and at the little waves he gave when they passed one another in the hallways, the happiest smiles always came when he asked her to read something. 

_“Could you write that list down?”_ Cyril started asking whenever someone sent him to the market, barely hiding his giddiness each time a fresh list landed in his hands. He’d always fold the parchment neatly, until it fit in his pocket without bending or creasing, before rushing off to search the monastery grounds for Lysithea.

The list of the day was from Professor Byleth, pressed into Cyril’s hands after a rare morning of private training. Cyril raced around the monastery as soon as he was dismissed, but Lysithea was nowhere to be found: not in the library nor the dining hall nor the training ground. She wasn’t looking out over any of the monastery’s balconies, as she sometimes did on the sunniest days, wasn’t crouching in the hidden back courtyard, petting the cats lounging in the sun. 

Cyril’s jaw clenched when he realized she was probably in her room. 

Something about visiting her room felt insolubly off-limits, like he was violating some unspoken treaty about where his territory ended and the students’ began. He expected her to rebuke him at the door, or at the very least, to step outside to speak with him, but instead, she invited him inside. Cyril took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold, keeping quiet as he took in the room. Books rose from her desk in tall, tidy stacks; an army of tiny porcelain animals patrolled the edges of her shelves. A picnic basket balanced on an end table and a little princess doll was sprawled on the floor, tiara-clad head peeking out from beneath a thick wool blanket.

Lysithea’s gaze followed Cyril’s until it landed on the doll; a strangled noise escaped her throat as she kicked it backwards under the bed, flames in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks. Cyril held back a grin as he opened his mouth--

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t!” Lysithea snapped, hands on her hips, more flustered than angry (an observation Cyril chose to keep to himself). 

“Wasn’t going to say anything,” he lied, letting a sliver of a smirk recline across his lips. 

Lysithea's hands softened against her sides. “So what’s up?” she asked, hitting him with that happy-but-impatient smile that could conjure a cyclone in his stomach if he didn’t look away. 

Cyril fished the shopping list from his pocket and held it out. “Could you read something for me again?” 

Lysithea plucked it from his hands and read it silently; her expression was changing again, into something contemplative Cyril hadn’t seen before. 

“Did you try looking it over yourself yet?” she asked after a few moments’ silence.

The question crashed against Cyril’s ears like they’d been boxed; his chin hit his chest as a familiar shame hissed and bubbled under his skin. 

Lysithea grabbed Cyril’s elbow and pulled him across the room, legs slack and tangling like rope as he stumbled behind her. “Have a look here,” she said, flattening the list against her desk. “Any of these letters look familiar?”

Fear clambered up his limbs, down his spine, slithered around his ankles and bound his tongue. He didn’t know what scared him more. 

If he recognized nothing, would she think less of him? 

And if he _did_ recognize something--if she thought he didn’t need her help reading lists anymore--would she stop smiling at him?

A familiar stern voice forced its way into Cyril’s mind without an invitation. He’d made the mistake of lingering outside Seteth’s office in-between tasks earlier that day, and gotten a lecture as his reward. _“I cannot help but notice the way you squander your potential,”_ Seteth said through a heavy exhale. _“It’s as though you avert your gaze from it on purpose.”_

Was he doing that now?

It was true that he tried not to think too hard about the things he could maybe be good at, unless he could tie them back to his job. Lady Rhea might need him to fight for her someday, so his archery apprenticeship with Shamir felt safe, but he’d turned down the kindly old chef when she’d offered him a similar role in the kitchen. Cyril justified Professor Byleth’s Fodlan-style wyvern training for the same reasons, but steadfastly ignored the hazy memories of his old army commander and his stark-white steed, kicking up sand as they lifted off into the hot desert sky.  
He’d told Seteth that, in fewer words, and was met with a piteous frown--

Lysithea grunted impatiently and Cyril forced himself to lean over the desk. He tilted his head and studied the rows of messy script; they all looked like springs and coils at first, but when he looked a little closer, his brain sparked with recognition. He focused his eyes on the second row as Lysithea leaned over him, a few stray strands of white hair falling across his shoulder.

“This one,” he murmured, dragging a finger across the second line, “says… three… apples?”

“Yes, you got it!” Lysithea beamed, and the gleam made Cyril see stars. The warmth of her praise wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak.

He scanned the list with a newfound excitement; Lysithea read him the rest when he’d exhausted his recollection.

“It's clear you've got a sharp memory,” she said. “If you apply yourself, you'll be reading in no time.”

For a brief moment, Cyril let himself imagine that might be true, let himself try and picture a life at the monastery without illiteracy hanging over his head. It wasn’t an easy image to conjure, but its shape was buoyant in his mind once he set it free--

“And I won't be around to read things for you forever,” Lysithea added in a quiet voice. 

\--and the vision sank. 

Cyril’s limbs filled with sand as his fears changed form. Her tone sounded so _final_ , too heavy to only be talking about about graduation day. She sounded kind of like Lady Rhea when she talked about the threats against Church of Seiros -- but Lysithea's voice was leaden while Lady Rhea’s was sharp, weighed down by tragedy instead of propelled by it.

“Lysithea?” he asked, dropping his voice to match her softness. 

Lysithea met his eyes for a moment and the fear on her face was palpable. She quickly turned away, wrapped her arms around herself, like she was trying to take up less space. She hastily changed the subject, pushing the conversation firmly away from herself, back towards Cyril and his reading; Cyril decided not to push back.

“Did you simply not have time for it?” she prodded.

She kept his secret, Cyril reminded himself. She kept his secret when she didn’t have to, when nobody in the monastery would have faulted her for gossiping.

So maybe he was allowed to be honest again.

“Until now, I never thought about how to learn, and since I was hiding it, I never asked anybody,” he said. “But right now, I feel like I'd be happy to live like this for a little bit longer.” 

Lysithea narrowed her eyes like she was ready to protest, so Cyril launched the rest of his words like arrows into the air. “I like having you read things to me.”

She moved toward him, changed her mind, stepped backwards again as her mouth fell open. “You do?” 

“Yeah, you always seem happy when I ask you to read things, and when you're happy, you smile. I think you're pretty when you smile,” Cyril heard himself admitting, mouth apparently disconnected from his common sense. “I betcha everyone tells you that though, huh?”

For a moment, Lysithea froze, eyes impossibly wide. 

And then a furious blush broke out across her cheeks as she protested the compliment, and something entirely new stirred inside him.

“As a matter of fact, they haven’t! Stop messing with me!” she sputtered.

Cyril didn’t believe for a second that Lysithea von Ordelia had lived fifteen whole years without a single other person noticing how pretty she was when she smiled. 

But instead of saying that--and before he could think better of what he chose to say instead--he started teasing her. “Hang on a second. Am I the only one who's seen you make that face? Is that why nobody's told you?”

He knew that couldn’t possibly be true, either.

But he couldn’t deny how much he liked the response it earned. 

“Excuse you! I mean, honestly!” Lysithea glared at him as her blush deepened. She was trying so hard to look angry, to stop herself from smiling, but she couldn’t do it. It was the cutest thing Cyril had ever seen. 

Pushing the conversation any further was downright dangerous. 

Cyril quickly excused himself, darting out of the room before her expression could change, so he could think of her like that for the rest of the day. She called after him, but he was already too far down the hallway to make out her words. 

***

The next item on Cyril’s list was a clean-up in the entrance hall where that punchy guy, Caspar, had knocked a traveling merchant into the indoor fountain. Nobody had actually told him to handle the clean-up, but it wasn’t like anyone one _else_ would do it, so he grabbed a spare mop and headed towards the scene, even as his mind remained elsewhere.

That dazzling smile. And goddess, that blush--

“I’m going to teach you.”

“Huh?” Cyril nearly tripped as he came to a skidding stop in front of Lysithea. She was blocking his path into the entrance hall, hands folded across her chest, lines of determination set across her face. Her right foot tapped against the gleaming stone floor, echoing up the wooden beams to the ceiling. 

“I said I’m going to teach you,” Lysithea repeated. “You really should watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry,” Cyril said, the shock of the near-collision still galloping through his chest. “But teach me what, exactly?”

Lysithea glared at him, withering and indignant. “Reading, obviously. You need to learn. And since I’m the only one who knows your secret, it falls to me to teach you.”

“Oh, Lysithea, that’s real nice, but I can’t ask ya to--”

“You didn’t ask,” Lysithea interrupted, frowning. “I’m telling you what I decided.” 

Cyril had no idea how to respond to that, so he said nothing.

“You’re a lot smarter than you let on,” she continued. “I just know reading’s going to come easy to you.”

“I dunno about that--”

“I do. So you should listen to me. C’mon, what do you say?” Lysithea’s eyes were searching his face. Underneath her impatience, she almost looked nervous. 

Cyril was at a loss for words.

But he couldn’t hide his smile as he nodded. 

“Excellent!” Lysithea’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll meet a few times a week for lessons. Consistency is key!” 

“You got it,” Cyril said, trying to keep his tone calmer than he felt. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t _believe_ Lysithea wanted to spend this much time with him--

“I’ll have the first lesson ready by tomorrow,” she said, somehow talking even faster than before. “Tomorrow does work for you to start, correct? I don’t like wasting time.” 

“I can tell,” Cyril deadpanned. “You’ve been tapping your foot this whole conversation.”

“I have not!” she protested, slamming her foot against the ground to still it. “Why would you notice that, anyway?”

It was dawning on Cyril just how easy it was to rile Lysithea up. He’d never purposefully tried that with anybody before. He got short with people a lot, and sometimes he got so frustrated that he spoke in the heat of the moment, but those were rooted in anger and, usually, in fear.

But nothing about interacting with Lysithea felt dangerous. 

“I notice a lot of things,” Cyril said with a grin. “That princess doll in your room was real cute.” 

Lysithea’s eyes went wide as saucers. “You shouldn’t make me angry when I’m being nice to you!”

“If you’re angry, why are you smiling at me?” 

“I-- You’re-- I’m leaving now before I change my mind.” Lysithea glared at him--still smiling--before turning on her heel and flouncing away.

“See you tomorrow,” Cyril called after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should quickly acknowledge that in the game, their A support happens post-timeskip. I always found the choice to lock each and every A support behind the timeskip to be a bit baffling, as some of them (like Cyril and Lysithea's) really don't seem like they were written with that intention. So for this story, I moved it. 
> 
> And on that note: thanks for sticking with me these last four chapters while the story found its roots in their canon supports. We'll be diverging away from supports from here on out!


	5. the new normal, almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lines creased across Lady Rhea’s forehead and at the sides of her eyes. She held a lily in her hands, crushing one of its petals under her fingernails as she spoke. “I hope you can forget what you heard.”
> 
> “I didn’t hear anything. Just voices,” Cyril tried to reassure her."  
> //  
> Cyril and Lysithea begin reading lessons; Cyril has a concerning interaction with Lady Rhea.

Cyril was a mess. There was fodder stuck to his tunic, his shoes were squelching with water, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking after spending the last twenty minutes clenched into fists. The problem was the stable, or more specifically, the academy student who was assigned stable cleaning duty the same time Cyril was sent there to repair a broken gate -- and the topics she couldn’t seem to stay away from when they talked. 

Hilda chatted with him like they were casual acquaintances--meaning she conned him into doing her work while making small talk--and she clearly didn’t recognize him, or else she’d have the common sense not to talk to him at all. Cyril could tell that Hilda wasn’t trying to be cruel, but she talked like her relatives did, dropped the same epithets and looked at Cyril with the same suspicious scrutiny she’d probably learned from her parents. Maybe she didn’t mean anything by it, but that wasn’t any comfort to Cyril; hearing her talk never failed to transport him right back to House Goneril, right back to going days without food and working through injuries that never healed right. Cyril’s lungs went weak as the memories squeezed him; he tugged at his wraps, tightened them ‘til the aching wrists underneath went numb, and he could breathe again. 

Maybe that sudden rush of oxygen was why he said what he said, just before he finished his repairs and bolted from the stable. She’d asked him some unanswerable question about the differences between Almyrans and Fodlanders, probably wanting some subtle reinforcement of her own preconceptions. Cyril normally responded to Hilda in single syllables, in grunts or curt nods, but instead, he snapped.

“Wherever you go, you see people in power keep the weak ones down,” he’d said, picturing her relatives and the way they’d treated him right alongside the King of Almyra, who didn’t care about orphans or child soldiers in his own country. 

And for a single, solitary moment, as he ran towards Lysithea’s room, picking pieces of hay out of his curls, an image of Lady Rhea appeared next to them, too. Lady Rhea, executing a heretic for saying something bad about someone who lived tens of thousands of years ago. Lady Rhea, calmly threatening the professor about what might happen to her students should they ever turn their blades on the church. Lady Rhea, in her chambers, combing her hair around a crown she never donned in public, sharp and golden with twin horned wings above her always-hidden ears. 

It was a horrific, blasphemous, ungrateful thought; as soon as it struck, the blade of Cyril’s anger turned inward, slashing at the pieces of himself that flayed his reverence for Lady Rhea. How _dare_ he imagine his savior alongside his captors? She was powerful, yes, but she was different, she had to be different; the Knights of Seiros wouldn’t be so pious and dedicated to her if she wasn’t different. Cyril swallowed and ran a little faster across the courtyard, away from the shadows of the Goneril knights and his old battalion, from the specter of the blind zealotry for which they killed each other.

 _Enough._

“Hey!” Lysithea ushered him inside with a wave. “Ready to read?”

“Ready to try,” Cyril said as Lysithea handed him a teacup and saucer. The silky aroma of dried apples hit his nose; a few droplets of tea splashed to the ground from the unrelenting trembling of his hands. 

“I can’t study without tea,” Lysithea said before he could thank her. “Or sweets. Have you tried these?” She nudged a bright red box on the desk towards him with her elbow.

Cyril narrowed his eyes, studied the tiny little squares and the crest embossed on the box’s ajar lid. “They look fancy.”

“Edelgard gave them to me. She said that they’re traditional cakes in Enbarr, but that they’re too sweet for her. Isn’t that ridiculous? It’s cake. It’s meant to be sweet!” Lysithea stuffed a piece in her mouth, then picked up another and wedged it onto the rim of Cyril’s saucer. Cyril started to set it aside, but reconsidered when she glared at him.

“Mm. That’s pretty good,” he said through a bite, declining to mention that it was, in fact, just a bit too sweet. “Tea’s good, too.”

“Don’t you need sugar for it?” Lysithea asked, dumping a couple heaping spoonfuls into hers. 

Cyril shook his head as he moved his cup out of her reach. Apparently not even _sweet_ apple blend was sweet enough for Lysithea -- but tempting as it was to tease her, he kept his mouth shut. Instead, he took a long, slow sip of tea, let it coat his throat with its prickling heat and wash the bitter taste of the day out of his mouth. He was somewhere else now. Somewhere that didn’t have any right to feel as familiar and comfortable as it did. Somewhere he was slowly coming to cherish. 

Lysithea set her cup aside, grabbed a thin book from her desk, and sat on the floor. “Ready?” 

Cyril took another deep breath before joining her, begging the last wisps of his lingering memories to dissipate, to let him have this pocket of unexpected connection, to let him breathe.   
“Ready,” he said, eyeing the cover: a crock of soup with what he assumed was the title amidst its steam.

“It says _Classic Fodlanese Cookery_ ,” Lysithea said as she followed his gaze. “Obviously, your first task is to learn the alphabet, but I’m not going to waste your time with abstract drills. Since you have to buy ingredients so often, I thought we could keep our work applicable to your job.” 

Cyril said nothing, closing his eyes for a moment as the lingering warmth from the tea spread from his throat to his chest and stomach. 

Lysithea was looking at him when he opened his eyes, offering him a shy little smile. “What do you think?”

Goddess, when she looked at him like that, it was impossible not to smile back.

“I think you’re brilliant, Lyssie,” Cyril said with a grin, letting the nickname slip from his tongue knowing full well how it sounded.

But he felt just reckless enough to say it anyway. 

Lysithea froze as her cheeks turned the color of the cake box. “What did you just call me?!”

“Oh, was that too familiar?” Cyril tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’m starting to think you don’t always mean that,” Lysithea said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the cookbook. “But I-- I suppose you can call me Lyssie sometimes. As long as no one else hears you say it.”

Cyril grinned at her again, smoothing a wrinkle on his tunic sleeve. “Whatever ya say.” 

They dove into the lesson; Lysithea was a good teacher, not that Cyril had expected anything less. She was quiet and thorough, persistent but not condescending, and endlessly patient as they worked through the book’s ingredients guide. She pointed at words, tracing the undersides of their letters as Cyril worked to spell them and sound them out aloud: _A for apples_ , like he knew by heart from the shopping lists, _B for Boa fruit_ , _C for cabbage_. Cyril did his best to keep up as they trudged through the alphabet, trying to connect the shapes of the letters on the page with the sounds they made against his tongue.

It was slightly easier if he remembered them in her voice instead of his--

“Okay, try this one,” Lysithea said, nudging Cyril with her shoulder as she slid her finger across the page. “We’ve covered every letter in it.”

Cyril wasn’t sure about that, but he tried it anyway. “Oh...n...i...oh...n. Ohn-eye-ohn. Ugh.” 

“Say it faster.”

“Ohn-eye-ohn,” Cyril said again. “Ohn-yohn-- oh, is that onion?”

“Onion! Yes!” 

“Yeah! I got it! I knew I could get it,” Cyril exclaimed, lost for a moment in the pride beaming from her smile. Something was awakening inside him, a small part of himself that he’d buried away, a part that still remembered what it felt like to have dreams beyond his next meal, beyond survival, beyond repaying his debt to Lady Rhea. 

Maybe, if that part could stay awake, it could teach him how to have them again. 

Lysithea’s smile turned soft and contemplative. She couldn’t know what he was thinking, but the way she looked at him made Cyril think maybe she could see the faint glow warming his ribcage. 

“I knew you could, too.” 

***

Cyril spent a solid week living and breathing the alphabet: reciting it in his head as he swept the monastery’s pathways; mumbling “m-o-p” and “w-a-t-e-r” as he cleaned its floors; delighting in the familiarity of ‘verona’ and ‘peach’ on the signs in the marketplace. It had been so damn long since he had a goal of his own, a goal that didn’t belong to the commander of an army or the head of a house or the leader of a church. 

But it couldn’t last forever. The world wouldn’t let him forget who he really was, what life he was really living. 

Cyril was outside the door to Lady Rhea’s bedroom chambers first thing in the morning, just like always. The monastery was normally so peaceful at sunrise, when the first beams of light bent around the corner from the Star Terrace, with only Cyril and Lady Rhea awake to greet them. She was at her calmest in the mornings; it was one of the reasons they met when they did. 

But Lady Rhea wasn’t alone, and from the sounds of it, she wasn’t calm. She wasn’t yelling, exactly, but she was speaking in that hissing growl normally reserved for the heretics and thieves that were apprehended on monastery grounds. Whenever he heard her using that voice, Cyril knew to steel himself for whatever particularly unpleasant task was borne of her ire, like cleaning up after a church execution, or washing bloodied weapons. 

But this was different, because the voice that was tangled up with her anger didn’t belong to some random rogue.

It sounded like Seteth. 

Lady Rhea couldn’t-- she couldn’t hurt Seteth, could she?

Their actual conversation was impossible to make out through the heavy door. If he pressed his ear right up against it, Cyril might have been able to make it out, but the last thing he needed was to get caught eavesdropping. Lady Rhea probably couldn’t hurt Seteth, but she could absolutely hurt Cyril and nobody would blink, not even him. No matter what she did, as long as she didn’t kick him out, he’d go right back to her chambers the next morning for the day’s assignments like nothing happened, because he had to, because there was no other way--

The door flew open and Seteth stalked out, clutching a stack of papers. “This conversation isn’t over, Rhea!” he shouted over his shoulder as he turned towards the stairwell, striding past Cyril without so much as a nod. 

“I see. I pray you will reflect on what I said while you still can.” Lady Rhea’s voice was like a bead of water dripping off an icicle. “Cyril. Enter.”

Cyril obeyed, stepping across the threshold as quietly as he could.

Lines creased across Lady Rhea’s forehead and at the sides of her eyes. She held a lily in her hands, crushing one of its petals under her fingernails as she spoke. “I hope you can forget what you heard.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Just voices,” Cyril tried to reassure her.

“I hope that’s true.”

Cyril looked up, focusing on the tip of her nose instead of the frost in her eyes. “I’d never lie to you, Lady Rhea.”

She stared back at him, lips upturned in a stilted smile. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“What needs doing today?” Cyril forced himself to ask.

“Complete your usual cleaning and see to it that nothing is out of order.” 

Cyril didn’t move. The air in the room still felt heavy and dangerous; her voice was still _off_. There was no way that was all she had. 

He lowered his gaze to the floor. “What else?”

“As I believe you know, tomorrow is the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.”

At that, Cyril flashed back to Lysithea, fighting with the professor about the inter-house battle on the platform of her dormitory. That felt like half a year ago at least; had it really only been _one month_ since they’d started talking? 

Lady Rhea cleared her throat, and Cyril realized he’d forgotten to respond. “Do ya need me to make preparations? I can--”

“No,” she interrupted, ever quick to cut him off. “Everything has been handled by the knights. I will of course be away tomorrow, but I have a delivery that cannot be moved. I’ll need you to receive it in my absence.”

Cyril nodded again.

“You’ll be meeting a traveling merchant. Please do not be alarmed at his appearance. He will tuck himself out of the way, so just find him and identify yourself. Payment is already handled. Be there midday.”

“You bet. He got a name?” Cyril asked, ignoring the nervous feeling pinching his gut.

“That is none of your concern,” Lady Rhea said, tone sharp enough to slice through stone. “Bring it here at once, then leave immediately. Do not open it under any circumstances. That’s an order.”

“Understood.” Cyril hoped the nervous whirlwinds in his stomach weren’t shaking up his voice. It was usually unspoken that he’d save her the trouble of unpacking and putting away her deliveries. She was too busy for stuff like that. So then why--

“Good. You are dismissed.”

Cyril bowed, grabbed her trash can, and stepped outside her chambers to pour it down the chute for burning, hands shaking the whole way. 

_Ridiculous_ , he chided himself. He was being ridiculous. Lady Rhea wasn’t even angry at him. There was no reason for the knots in his stomach nor the choppy pulsing in his neck. It was selfish of him, stupid of him, dangerous of him to want to know more. He was _fine_. 

What she said to Seteth didn’t matter. No matter how ominous it sounded, it wasn’t Cyril’s business. Besides, she was probably just lashing out at someone she trusted. 

_Everybody gets upset_ , Cyril thought. _Everybody gets into fights with people sometimes_.

Even her.

She was only human, after all.


	6. (don't) look away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were a dark stain on his conscience, these uninvited thoughts, a tipped inkwell that seeped through the film of his mind and bled through its membranes before he could mop it up. There would never be a place for him in any world but this one.  
> //  
> Cyril stays behind as the three houses travel to the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

The monastery was exceptionally noisy for sunrise. Cyril stood in the hallway off the library, peering out the window and watching the bustle unfolding in the courtyard below. All the students were outside, piling their spare axes and lances next to crates of vulneraries on the house convoys. It was a bizarre scene: amiable chatter mixed against the clanking of weaponry and whinnying of horses, the caravans that were loaded no differently when the units were heading out to kill. 

The students reminded Cyril a little of how he used to be, during the first few years of his enlistment back in Almyra: harboring the solemnity that came with knowing how to take a life alongside a spirit that wasn’t yet in chains from fighting in an endless war. But there was something else, too. They were carrying the burden of tradition and legacy on their shoulders, a weight Cyril lost in the rough peaks of Fodlan’s Throat the day he was captured. And the way some of them handled their weapons like they were hot to the touch, kept their blades holstered even while still on monastery grounds, cast sidelong glances at their classmates who were laughing and joking, Cyril had to wonder if they had stories they weren’t telling, just like him. 

Maybe if things were different, he could have been more than just Lysithea’s friend for a year. Maybe there was another world out there they could have shared. A future they all could have carved together. 

But this wasn’t another world. This was the world where they were off to practice the kinds of battles they’d one day direct as high-ranking generals, strategists, noble rulers; it was the world where Cyril was staying put at the monastery, taking care of a task he didn’t understand for someone who didn’t trust him enough to explain--

_No_.

He had to stop. They were a dark stain on his conscience, these uninvited thoughts, a tipped inkwell that seeped through the film of his mind and bled through its membranes before he could mop it up. There would never be a place for him in any world but this one. As if his life--the life Lady Rhea saved, the life he owed--was worth enough to question its purpose and place at all. 

Selfish. Weak. _Pathetic_. He’d deserve it if she struck him down. 

Cyril was about to turn away when he spotted Lysithea in the far corner of the courtyard. She was kneeling in the grass, eyes closed, shoulders heaving and hair falling into her face. He watched as Professor Byleth stepped away from the convoy and knelt next to her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder; watched as Lysithea sprang to her feet, leapt backwards, balled her fists at her side and yelled something lost to the wind. Cyril pressed his hand to the window, heart galloping against his chest. Why was she swaying on her feet? Why did she look so pale?

He bolted down the hallway, skidding into the courtyard just as the convoys pulled away. 

***

It wasn’t _that_ weird that Lady Rhea had a delivery that couldn’t be rescheduled. A delivery that was coming when _no one_ would be around to see it dropped off.

But who in Fodlan was so busy that they weren’t willing to rearrange their schedule for the damn archbishop? 

Did she _want_ this to come when no one would see?

The high noon sun baked into his curls and a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead as he reached the monastery's marketplace. At first, the whole plaza looked deserted. Even the blacksmith and battalion guildmaster had taken the day to travel with the convoys--

“Hello!” called a strangely cheerful voice. “Are you Cyril?”

Cyril turned around to face the voice. “Who’s asking?” 

“Come now, I’m quite confident that doesn’t matter,” the merchant said, stepping out of the shadows. Not that the light made that much of a difference: it was impossible to tell what he actually looked like underneath his beaked mask and heavy black robe.

He made Cyril’s skin crawl.

“Where’s Lady Rhea’s delivery?” 

“Right here, right here. I suppose I can’t interest you in any supplemental purchases, can I? I have a great supply of arcane crystals, some very fine teas that even the nobles have a hard time getting their hands on--”

“Just her delivery. It’s this?” Cyril motioned to a large box made of thin wooden planks.

“That’s the one! It’s all yours -- take it! But careful carrying it, now. You wouldn’t want them to detonate, hm?”

Cyril froze. “Detonate?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything! You’ll be careful now, though, won’t you?” The merchant’s head tilted as if he was smiling under the mask, shook like he was laughing though he’d fallen silent.

Fear sunk its claws into Cyril’s scalp, scratched thin lines from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine, but he couldn’t show it, couldn’t so much as shiver. He nodded to the merchant, picked up the bulky box, and headed back up the stairs to the gate, trying and failing to pretend he was carrying firewood, or the latest shipment of training swords, or that he’d taken the merchant up on his offer and bought a whole damn crate of black market tea. Anything normal. Anything safe. Anything that didn’t darken the shadows that hovered over Lady Rhea like a stormcloud whenever he looked at her for too long. 

“Tell your friends about my other wares! I might just try doing business here someday,” the merchant called after him.

When he reached Lady Rhea’s chambers, he set the box on her upholstered bench and stared at it. Stood perfectly still, hands behind his back, fingernails digging into his wrist.

_Bring it here at once, then leave immediately_ , she’d said. _Do not open it under any circumstances. That’s an order._

Cyril looked towards the door, then towards the box. 

Towards the door again. Box again. 

Door.

Box.

There was a crack in the top of the box. It wasn’t enough to clearly identify the contents, but from what Cyril could see, it looked to be filled with thin red cylinders, little cloth wicks sticking off their ends and woven together in ropes. They looked kind of like fireworks, although fireworks hardly seemed like something to keep secret. 

It didn’t make any sense.

Cyril sank down, back to the box, and looked around Lady Rhea’s chambers. He knew them well, cleaned them frequently, but he’d never paid much attention to just how many things were _locked_ before. A trunk that looked as old as the monastery, padlocked and chained to the wall. Her desk drawers, each fitted with individual keyholes. The ornate wooden box that sat on her dressing table, engraved with what looked like the crest from the red cake box in Lysithea’s room. 

An old memory flitted across his mind, a little film scrap from his deployment to the border. Acrid smoke poured through the flap of his tent, turned its golden canvas grey with soot. Cyril poked his head out, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as his old commander shouted the squadron to attention. _It’s a fire attack!_ he’d screamed. _They’re shelling us! Prepare to move out!_ Cyril was surrounded by coughing, by yelling, by the hissing lick of flames and the choked gurgle of breath leaving comrades who were struck by shrapnel. They weren’t heading home for a feast at the end of the day. Anyone who wasn’t dead was going to the Locket. He prepared to fight like he’d never fought before, prepared to fight the Goneril soldiers of legend head-on, fight back against the barrage of flames and explosives--

Explosives--

Cyril turned and ran out of her room, slamming the door hard enough to send its rattle echoing down the empty hallway. 

She couldn’t-- she didn’t need--

_Why?_

Cyril ran until he reached the main floor of the monastery, made himself busy deep cleaning the empty dining hall, anything to keep his hands busy and his feet planted on the ground. He filled his bucket with the hottest water possible and scrubbed until his hands were scalded and his wrist wraps soaked through, got the tables shining, the floors clear of all their stubborn, sticky stains, the serving counter spotless.

_This ought to make her happy_ , he should have thought. 

But all he could think about was fire.

The head chef and her assistants filed in as Cyril polished the tea cabinet, waving to him as they assembled behind the counter. 

“It'll be a quiet one today with everyone gone, huh?” he commented to the chef, doing his best impersonation of normal, idle chatter.

She shook her head. “If it’s anything like last year’s battle, the houses will feast well into the night tonight. In fact, I bet they’re almost here!”

Cyril grit his teeth as the group started laughing, stacking boxes of marketplace sweets and bags of flour. 

The chef turned to him with an apologetic look on her face. “Since you’re here, could you help wash a few dishes?”

Cyril nodded, stepping into the kitchen and started scrubbing the large stack of pans soaking in the sink. When that was done, he unloaded crates of wine and stacked goblets in pyramids on the bar, piled plates and bowls on the counter as a delicious aroma of roasting pheasant filled the air. He’d just finished smoothing all the tablecloths when a chorus of voices echoed down the hallway, Claude’s rising above them leading the jubilant chant:

“Fear the deer! Fear the deer! Fear the deer!” 

Students spilled into the dining hall, swarmed the buffet and the bar and jostled each other for the best seats at the tables. Cyril kept his eyes on the floor as he tried to push against the flow, to make it back to the kitchen, to sneak out the service door--

“Hey, look who it is!” Claude exclaimed, sidling up to Cyril with an enormous plate of food in one hand and a very full goblet of wine in the other. 

_Damnit._

Cyril didn’t talk to Claude very often. The last time they’d spoken--months ago, at least--Claude had basically accosted him, asked some extremely probing questions about Lady Rhea that left Cyril dumbfounded at his brazenness. When he’d pushed back, Claude acted offended, like Cyril should have recognized him immediately, fallen at his feet offering up answers and secrets, like some kind of spy activated from his sleeper cell. Honestly, Cyril was pretty sure that he _did_ recognize Claude, even though he’d denied it when Claude pushed the issue. It was safer that way; surely Claude knew that, too. Surely Claude could at least see that the last thing Cyril needed was anyone questioning his loyalty to Lady Rhea--

Cyril wondered for a guilty second what would happen if Claude were to ask those same questions again, before smacking the thought away. Nothing would change. Nothing could change, if he wanted to keep this life. 

Any life. 

“I was just leaving,” Cyril said glumly, attempting to step past Claude towards the door.

Claude blocked his path. “You look like you’ve been working hard. Why not join us for a bit? Revel in the glow of the victorious Golden Deer!” 

“Nah, I should really get back.”

“Gods, there’s nothing I love more than a good post-battle feast,” Claude said, setting his plate down and stretching his arm over his head. “Now if only we had some decent dancing music, this would really be a party. You know what I mean, right?” 

Cyril fought the urge to whip his head around, searching for nosy ears and prying eyes. Not _again_. If Claude was trying to hide who he was, why was he being so _obvious_ about it? Fodlanders didn’t say that kind of stuff, about feasts and music and dancing after battles. And everyone in Fodlan said ‘goddess.’ _Only_ ‘goddess.’ ‘Gods’ was blasphemy, treason against the Church of Seiros itself. Cyril hadn’t realized that at first -- not until the first time he said ‘gods’ in front of someone at House Goneril.

Didn’t make that mistake ever again. 

To hear Claude say it so nonchalantly sent a plunge of fear through Cyril’s gut. Didn’t he know what kind of fire he was playing with? Didn’t he know what Lady Rhea could _do_? 

Lysithea bounded over before Cyril could answer, holding out a plate filled entirely with Noa fruit tarts. “Hey, Cyril! Look what they have!” 

Cyril felt a small smile sneak onto his lips as he took a tart. He wasn’t sure what was a bigger relief -- seeing Lysithea looking full of energy again, better than she had seemed from the window that morning, or not having to reply to Claude now that his mouth was full. 

“What’s happening right now?” Claude looked bewildered. “Who are you and what have you done with Lysithea? And which one’s mine?”

“Why would I have gotten you one? Get your hands away from my plate!”

“Oh good, you _are_ still Lysithea. But why were you being so nice to-- oh gods, what did you do to poor Cyril? Did you make him cry?” Claude turned to Cyril and feigned an exaggerated bow. “As her house leader, and babysitter, I take responsibility for whatever she did--”

“What? Lysithea’s too nice to make anyone cry,” Cyril protested.

“Lysithea? _Nice?_ Are we talking about the same girl?” Claude’s eyes widened. “A few minutes ago, she was yelling at Raphael for offering to carry the Levin sword she found, and at poor Ignatz, for calling it beautiful. And then she dropped it and yelled at _me_ as if it was somehow my fault.”

“Claude, shut it!” Lysithea hissed. “You know very well that I don’t enjoy being treated like a child. Cyril has the decency not to treat me like one, that’s all.”

Claude smirked as he took a glug of wine. “So Cyril treats you like a _woman_ , huh? Damn. I’m impressed, kid.”

Lysithea choked on her third tart as Cyril yelped. “Claude! If one of the knights hears ya say something like that--” 

“Kidding, kidding. Loosen up, you two. Go drink some wine. Wine’s great! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see if I can get Dimitri and Edelgard to drink enough wine to actually talk to each other for more than thirty seconds. See what comes out, you know?” Claude picked up his plate and sauntered over to the table where the rest of the house leaders were gathered, throwing an arm around a very startled-looking Dimitri and drawing a glare from Dedue.

“This is why I am always complaining to you about my classmates,” Lysithea shook her head, regaining her composure. “They are fools.” 

Cyril forced a laugh and shook his head. “At least your class won?”

“Of course we won!” Lysithea exclaimed, eyes shining with pride. “Come on, let’s go get some food. They have roast pheasant!”

“Sorry. I’ve still got some work to do,” Cyril said. The lie was sour on his tongue, but the truth tasted worse. Toxic. Bitter. Not even talking to Lysithea was calming him down. The buoyant shouts of the celebration were hurting his ears, blisters from the scalding cleaning water had bubbled and burst under his wraps, and if he couldn’t quiet the goddess-damned _questions_ in his mind, he was going to break something that couldn’t be fixed.

He couldn’t stop--he _had to stop_ \--wondering what he’d missed all those times he’d looked away.


	7. everything turns red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When had he lost his numbness to her blade? When had his reaction changed from _thank the goddess Lady Rhea’s safe_ to _what in the goddess’s name did Lady Rhea do?_  
>  //  
> Cyril handles an incident for Lady Rhea; Lysithea's class goes to Remire Village.  
> cw: blood (not graphic, warning out of an abundance of caution)

“There was an incident on my terrace,” Lady Rhea said, voice eerie and calm.

Cyril froze in her doorway, wishing he could go back in time and agree to join Professor Byleth’s emergency mission to Remire Village. _I should stay with Lady Rhea_ , he’d said, because staying by Lady Rhea’s side was supposed to be the right thing to do. Byleth had looked at him for a moment too long, unblinking and harsh, then nodded and walked away without another word. Her class marched at dawn and Cyril watched them out the window, before entering Lady Rhea’s chambers and immediately getting smacked with those deceptively simple, terrifying words--

Since the day of her secret delivery, he’d been losing the battle to quiet his thoughts, to smooth out the questions prickling up and down his spine. Sleep had eluded him for most of the moon, nightmares plaguing the few hours he managed to claim. His strategy, whenever the sacrilegious thoughts scraped their talons across his mind, was to repeat a simple mantra: _you owe her your life_. He tried to make decisions in accordance with those words, indefinitely canceling his archery lessons with Shamir, refusing to attend any more seminars or accept any of the professor’s invitations for tea; his days were dedicated entirely to his job and the occasional evening reading lesson with Lysithea. The guilty side of him knew he should cancel those, too, but the selfish side couldn’t bear to give them up. To give her up. 

Perhaps this was his punishment. 

It had been quite some time since there’d been an _incident_ , but Cyril still knew what it meant: someone crossed Lady Rhea and didn’t live to tell the tale, didn’t even make it to the official church judgment and execution. It meant blood on the terrace stones, blood soaking into his wraps and dyeing his sponges, blood on his hands. Cyril was no stranger to bloodshed, of course; he’d spilled others’ on the battlefield, watched his own streak the rocky ridges of Fodlan’s throat, dug into the carmine-splattered dirt between his parents and watched it fall through his fingers as they waited for their burials.

So Lady Rhea spilled blood in secret -- it wasn’t like Cyril’s hands were clean. And her incidents never phased him before, never registered as anything more than something she’d done in the name of her people, in the name of the only place he’d ever found a purpose; his loyalty was once so fierce and protective, his heartbeat once so ossified. When had he lost his numbness to her blade? When had his reaction changed from _thank the goddess Lady Rhea’s safe_ to _what in the goddess’s name did Lady Rhea do?_

“Well?” Lady Rhea stared down at him, impatient eyes flicking over his face. 

“Understood,” Cyril said, bowing deeply before heading for the terrace. “I’ll take care of it.”

He forced his mouth into a thin, taut line and tried to let his survival instinct take over; physically, he succeeded. He scrubbed the jagged crimson stains ‘til his muscles sizzled, and his arms and legs moved with all the urgency and vigor she expected. But every stray reflection in the puddles made his pulse stagger and bounce; all his traitorous mind could imagine was Lysithea chancing upon the scene, seeing his hands soaked in goddess-knew-whose blood, and running away. 

_You owe Lady Rhea your life_ , he murmured to himself, mixing the words with the soap in his bucket. _You owe her your life, you owe her your life, this blood could be yours if you forget that--_

By the time he finally finished, it was nightfall and his hands were shaking from exhaustion. Cyril washed them between the shadows in the pond, unfurled his wraps and rinsed them under the fountain’s moonlit cascade, then wound them, soaking wet, around his wrists and fled. He ran straight to the library without stopping for food, lit a small candle and circled the room, seeking distraction. He still couldn’t read whole books by himself, but he could pick out the paragraphs and passages anchored by words he’d memorized in Lysithea’s voice. 

Or he could try, at least. Anything but sleep. Nothing good would come of sleep. The second he closed his eyes, the library would be covered in blood and he couldn’t take another drop--

There was a log of noble families left open across a table, and a mythology collection discarded by the side of a shelf. It was strange to see books out of place like that. Tomas hated it when the library was left in disarray; Cyril had heard him mumbling once about missing books, old and valuable tomes that couldn’t be replaced if they weren’t found. Cyril always wondered if the missing books were actually just mis-shelved books from before Tomas had returned to Garreg Mach, when Cyril used to put them away based on size and shape. He could fix those mistakes now that he had a handle on the alphabet, he realized. Next time he had a free afternoon--such a job required more than candlelight--Cyril would give it a try. Tomas was traveling again, had been away for a moon at least; he decided to get it done before he returned.

Truth be told, Tomas might’ve been the only person in the monastery besides Lysithea who’d learned a secret of his and kept it. Maybe a couple weeks after they met, Tomas found Cyril in the library, curled up against the leg of a study table in the middle of the night. Cyril flinched, started to scramble to his feet, but Tomas just nodded, turned around, and left him alone to sleep. It was an unexpected kindness that Cyril never forgot; the least he could do was keep the library clean in Tomas’s absence.

Cyril picked the book of mythology up from the floor and carried it back to the table, picking out words until the candle flickered out and he couldn’t fight off sleep any longer.

***

“Where were you yesterday?” Lysithea asked, handing Cyril a cup of honey-scented tea as he crouched against the side of her desk. “I couldn’t find you after we came back from Remire.”

 _I was washing someone’s death off the floor_ , he didn’t say, bitterness leaching from the silent words into his tongue, masking the momentary sweetness he tasted from the thought of Lysithea looking for him. 

“Working,” he said instead. “Something happen? Lady Rhea seemed real upset this morning.”

That was an understatement. Lady Rhea was radiating fury when Cyril arrived for their sunrise meeting, scribbling furiously in her ledger and murmuring curses under her breath that Cyril couldn’t quite parse. He’d been too afraid to ask if she was all right -- not that he’d gotten the chance. As soon as he opened his mouth, she sent him away with a curt handwave and an order not to return to her chambers until the next morning. That was unusual, but markedly better than cleaning up after another _incident_ , so Cyril hadn’t protested. 

“She didn’t tell you?” Lysithea asked, voice stretched with surprise.

Cyril shook his head. “I’m not the kind of guy she tells things to.”

“I see.” Lysithea looked down at the floor. “When we went to Remire yesterday, we found the townspeople rampaging. And we found Tomas, casting the spells controlling them. He’s been lying to everyone. He’s some sort of dark mage--”

“Tomas wouldn’t betray the church!” Cyril knocked his teacup against its saucer. “I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it.” 

“That’s a strange thing to say,” Lysithea said, narrowing her eyes. “You won’t believe it? Do you think you have a choice? It’s what happened.”

Cyril recoiled as Lysithea’s words squeezed his throat.

 _When have I ever had a choice?_ he wanted to say. Wanted to shout, even -- but that was too much, too dangerous, too honest and raw. Lysithea was already shouldering a secret of his. She didn’t need to carry his chains, too.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I’m just surprised, I guess. There’s some people in the church who hate Almyrans like me, but Tomas was always real kind.”

“It was on my house’s recommendation that he was hired here. It seems you weren’t the only one taken in by his act.” Lysithea's expression softened a little as she shook her head.

“Or maybe he changed,” Cyril said. “Maybe he really was kind once.”

Lysithea took a sip of tea before shrugging. “Maybe. His whole appearance changed when we fought him. Dark magic alone cannot do that.”

Cyril nodded. “I guess you would know. That’s what you practice, right?”

Lysithea leaned back against the bed, pulled her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “It is, but I’m hardly an expert, and there’s no one else to ask. None of the professors know it. One other student studies it, but he’s not particularly approachable.”

“Why’d ya pick it? Dark magic, I mean?” Cyril asked, regretting the question instantly when Lysithea’s gaze went from following to dodging his own.

“I have my reasons,” she said softly, face falling as her hands trembled around the rim of her cup. Cyril knew that look--the look of someone who hadn’t been given a choice--and it shattered his heart to see Lysithea wearing it. He opened his mouth to apologize, but before he could, Lysithea spoke again. “Maybe I’ll tell you why someday.”

Cyril smiled; it felt heavy and awkward on his lips, but he figured that was okay. “You can tell me anything, Lyssie.”

Lysithea busied herself with refilling their cups, dropping an unrequested sugar cube into Cyril’s tea and stirring it. Cyril tried and failed to hold back his grimace, but Lysithea didn’t notice; she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the cup as she changed the subject. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer either.”

“Sure.” Cyril took a sip of the too-sweet tea and pooled it on his tongue.

“Do you ever think about the past?”

Cyril hadn’t expected that. Was she talking about Almyra? People asked him about Almyra all the time, but they didn’t usually ask like that. And she couldn’t know about his time in House Goneril -- if not even Hilda had made that connection, then surely Lysithea had no way to know. 

He wondered why she asked. What she thought he might say. 

He wanted so badly to be honest, wanted to tell her that it wasn’t so much that he _thought_ about the past but that he _felt_ it, smelled and tasted and saw and heard it whenever something at the monastery took him by surprise; that the scent of Almyran pine needle tea from the professor’s pot brought back the humid steam that rose from his parents’ clear glass cups, that when he scrubbed the wyvern saddles, the phantom grit of sand pushed back against his calloused palms. He wanted to confide in her about Lady Rhea’s explosive delivery, and the fragments of his first war that it lodged in his senses, how scared he was that his memories were coming full circle, that he’d be falling on a lit wick for Lady Rhea as soon as she commanded him to dive. 

“I try not to,” he said, clenching his teeth together before anything else could tumble free.

But Lysithea looked at him like his face was being honest even when he wasn’t. She reached out and took his hands in hers, didn’t squeeze so much as cupped them between her palms.

 _Like a princess’s_.

“There are some things in my past I try not to think about, too,” she said.

Cyril kept his hands perfectly still between hers, afraid any movement would make her pull them away. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Honestly, I was reminded of them at Remire. All I mean to say is that I’m sorry you also carry that kind of weight. I hope we both find what we need here.”

“Yeah,” Cyril agreed. He knew outrunning the past was impossible, and from the sad undertone in her voice, he was pretty sure she did, too. But he’d never felt farther from it, safer from it, more insulated from it than in the dim light of the dorm with her hands in his. 

He wondered for a greedy, hopeful breath if she felt that, too.

Lysithea looked down at their clasped hands, cleared her throat, and stared at the floor. “We can, um, start reading now, if you want.”

Cyril did not want to start reading. He wanted to keep being selfish, wanted to keep holding Lysithea’s hands and never let go. But he took the cue, pulled his arms back to his sides, and nodded all the same. 

They started reading about the basics of archery, but Cyril quickly lost his focus. He tried to shield his mind with the warmth left behind from Lysithea’s hands, tried to tether himself to her voice as it crossed the page, but the bone-chilling timbre of Lady Rhea’s voice was sneaking back across his eardrums, squeezing at his mind until the crimson of yesterday’s terrace dripped from the ceiling onto his eyelashes--

and it was on his arms, soaking into his wraps, and it was in the fountain, poisoning the koi-- 

and the words were swimming on the page and the page was turning red and--

Lysithea stood up suddenly, tucking a bookmark into the book and dropping it onto the desk. She extended both arms and pulled Cyril to his feet by his wrists before he could protest. The red started fading from the room as he found his footing. Lady Rhea was still in his ears, but she was growing fainter with the steadying of his pulse--

“Lyssie?” he asked. 

“I could use something sweet,” she said with a shrug. “Let’s go to the dining hall?”

She understood. Again. 

Goddess, how did she _do_ that? How could she just look at him and _know_?

No one had ever looked at Cyril like that before. 

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, trying to quell his shaky, confused heart with a few deep breaths.

They stepped into the refreshingly chilly evening; Lysithea hovered in Cyril’s waning shadow, latching onto his bicep as they walked towards the dining hall. He looked over his shoulder, steadfastly ignoring the ripples of heat in his muscles. “Everything okay?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea!” she pushed him forward without letting go, nearly tripping him. “I’m certainly not afraid of ghosts, if that’s what you were thinking. I’m just-- cold. That’s all.” 

Cyril thought about how easy it would be to extract his arm from her grip and wrap it around her instead.

“Uh huh,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “Sure you are.”


	8. spin until the music stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he knew was that no one else made his heart sing and his breath hitch like Lysithea did. No one else could light up his whole day with a single smile. No one else was as smart, or as kind, or as beautiful--  
> //  
> Everyone struggles in the wake of Remire; Garreg Mach holds its annual ball.

The monastery was so damn loud.

Cyril tried to ignore it, tried to keep his head down and ears plugged, tried to carry on with his days and pretend that passing conversations didn’t lodge like arrows in his ribs. When had the echoes of the corridors become so sharp and shrill? When had the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen begun to sound like clashing weapons? 

He spent a cold Sunday morning scraping wax from the cathedral candlesticks, listening to the monks as they whispered beneath the ambient noise; Professor Byleth hovered nearby, scribbling over the notes in the advice box. Had they always whispered like this? Had their voices always sounded so nervous? Their prayers and chants so somber? Had their hands always been so shaky as they turned the pages of their scores?

“Another of us has vanished,” one hummed, hood falling over her eyes. “Deserted in the dead of night.”

“Goddess have mercy,” another murmured back.

Time was passing faster and faster -- or perhaps it had slowed since Cyril met Lysithea, and was simply returning to its usual state of perilous rapidity. Or maybe it was the desperation in the air, the palpable ache for distance from the Remire tragedy that lingered in the air throughout the monastery. The students didn’t bring up Tomas when they visited the empty library, and everyone who’d gone on the mission kept their shock and horror muffled. Cyril only caught glimpses of it in their faces, when their eyes fixed on a point in the distance and glassed over, when foggy anguish spilled from their leaden sighs. Even Lysithea didn’t speak of it to him beyond their initial conversation. Each time they met up to read, Cyril so badly wanted to ask her how she was holding up, what she’d meant when she told him Remire reminded her of the past, but couldn’t force the words across his tongue, wouldn’t risk rekindling the smoldering memories and setting her mind ablaze again.

Lady Rhea didn’t discuss what transpired, but neither did she ignore it: on her orders, dozens of recently-orphaned children from the village moved into Garreg Mach. Cyril saw them shuffling through the gardens like zombies and pushing food around their plates in the dining hall. And he saw the same church members who called him names and glared at him when he passed them by doting on them, kneeling next to them for prayers and teaching them how to fish from the pond. Looking at the orphans felt like a lance between the eyes. A few months ago, the sight of them would have filled him with pride and adoration; instead, he felt his heart going cold in the iron grip of guilt. Had he simply been corrupted? Blinded? Tricked? How could he look upon their faces, follow their gazes to Lady Rhea’s gemstone eyes and no longer see the same benevolent savior they did? 

There was a part of him who couldn’t stop noticing how small they all were: smaller than he’d been when he arrived by many years, in some cases. As small as he’d been when he enlisted back in Almyra, when he was given his first bow and his first axe. As small as he’d been the first time he swore away his life, and the first time he ended someone else’s in a skirmish--

Cyril didn’t see Lady Rhea interacting with the new orphans much. Her schedule as of late was exceptionally busy, filled with closed-door meetings and public appearances alike, as well as preparations for the upcoming ball she refused to cancel. _The monastery is a blessing from the Goddess_ , she’d remarked to Seteth, voice packed with snow. _I will not allow our enemies to rob us of her gift._

She emptied several bottles of ink into letters over the course of weeks, sending out stacks of wax-sealed scrolls with a rotating parade of afternoon messengers. She didn’t seem to be sleeping much; on multiple mornings, Cyril found her already pacing through the terrace’s frosty air before sunrise, tucking wilted lilies back into her hair as she stood by the fountain. He wondered how she could look at herself in the same water that ran thick and dark with the blood rinsed from his sponges, and see anything but red splashed across her face.

Cyril wondered for a moment if she saw the orphans instead, saw the followers of her church or the face of the goddess -- or if it was only her own legacy that drove her justice, if she killed for something in her past or in her heart that even Cyril didn’t know about. 

Or maybe she just didn’t look.

Cyril was starting to think he’d never know for certain, and _that_ left him in the clutches of an entirely different sort of terror. 

***

When the night of the ball arrived, Cyril could only stomach a quick peek through the ballroom’s cracked doors. The party was in full swing; the room was packed with students he didn’t recognize clutching the champagne flutes he’d arranged on the bar earlier in the day, chatting away while the orchestra took what appeared to be a brief intermission. It was opulent, lively, and unexpectedly overwhelming. 

Cyril wasn’t quite sure what it was about this particular night of merriment that made him grit his teeth and clench his fists, and frankly, he didn’t want to stick around to contemplate it. So he closed the doors and kept his feet moving, trying to outpace his thoughts as he wound his way through the grounds of the monastery. He charted a vague course towards the cathedral, for no other reason than he expected to find it empty; the sounds of the party stretched out on the breeze once he reached the bridge, turned from an uproar to a low growl before disintegrating entirely. 

He didn’t anticipate taking refuge alone in the Goddess Tower, but when he found the cathedral door locked, his feet carried him without prompting towards the old structure that was somehow built into the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree. It was one of the few areas of the monastery Cyril had never visited. He’d been inside the Holy Tomb, walked the crumbling passageways of Abyss -- but the tower of legend had remained a mystery until that night. He’d heard of its wish-granting abilities for couples thanks to Seteth, when he’d caught the tail end of a lecture aimed at Flayn that concluded with an order to keep thirty meters’ distance from it. He wondered if the story was true.

But he wasn't there to make a wish, he reminded himself. It wasn’t like the girl he wanted to see would be waiting there for him; ignoring the fact that Lysithea surely didn’t expect him to attend the ball in the first place, he couldn’t imagine her entering the most haunted-looking building in the monastery by herself, when simply walking in the dark had made her cling to him like ivy on stone. He climbed the winding staircase more out of curiosity than anything else, passing through three different rooms with wide hearths and spiraling floorboards, before he heard a girl’s voice filtering down from the very top level--

His heart stopped for a moment before he recognized it as Professor Byleth’s.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate you looking into this.”

“Sure thing, friend,” her low-toned companion replied. “Like I said before, I don’t like owing people.” 

_Where do I know that other voice from?_ Cyril wondered, before stopping to ponder the words themselves. He realized he’d stumbled upon something clandestine, not a romantic wish between lovers at all. It was an exchange he was certainly not meant to overhear; he feared that if he tried to harbor any more secrets by himself, he’d collapse under their weight. 

So for the second time that night, he fled.

***

“Why didn’t you go to the ball?” Lysithea asked as she made them tea the next day, a couple of library books about the Church of Seiros waiting on her desk for them to read.

Cyril slumped against the side of her bed, knocked his head against its metal frame and tried to shake loose an answer that wouldn’t invite more questions. 

“I’m not exactly the ball type,” he said, letting out a short bark of a laugh that was harsher than he intended.

Lysithea shrugged. “I’m not either, to be honest. It was fun and all, but it was a bit awkward.”

That was unexpected. “How so?”

“Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not particularly close with any of my classmates," Lysithea said as she finished the tea and sat on the bed. "Most of them treat me like a child, and I hate it. I may be younger than them, but I work harder than all of them, too. They should see me as their equal. Or their senior!”

Cyril tried and failed to stifle the laugh bubbling in his throat.

“Stop laughing at me! I’m older than you!” Lysithea leaned over and pushed him on the shoulder.

Cyril tilted his head backwards so he could look at her. “That’s a very mature thing to say.”

Lysithea crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “Now you’re just being mean for no reason.” 

Cyril couldn't help but laugh again. Goddess, was it ever nice to joke around with her, to be the version of himself no one else ever saw. Not the standoffish, sarcastic loner; not the Lady Rhea devotee. 

Just Cyril, the boy who would do anything to make Lysithea smile. 

“Nah, there’s a reason,” he said, flattening his palms against the floor until his muscles shook from the stretch.

“Is that so?” she asked, a sliver of a smile shining through her indignation. “And what might it be?”

Cyril stood up, turned to face her with a grin. “You’re even cuter when you’re flustered.”

“Stop saying things like that!” Lysithea exclaimed, throwing a crumpled piece of parchment at Cyril from her perch on the bed. “Do you tease all your friends like this?”

Cyril shrugged. “I don’t have many friends besides you.”

That was true. Cyril was pretty sure Shamir wouldn’t take too kindly to being called his friend as opposed to his (former) tutor, and it wasn’t like he actually knew her that well. One of the guys in the Blue Lions, Ashe, had called Cyril his friend once, way back when the students first arrived at the academy; it had taken him by surprise more than anything. And the Brigid princess, Petra, had trained with him a couple of times back then, although they hadn’t spoken in months. Did any of those count as friendships? He wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was that no one else made his heart sing and his breath hitch like Lysithea did. No one else could light up his whole day with a single smile. No one else was as smart, or as kind, or as beautiful--

“Seriously, though, you should have at least gone for a little while,” Lysithea said. “I was looking for you the whole night.”

Cyril’s heart flickered like a candle in his chest. “Did you dance much?”

Lysithea rolled her eyes. “Claude dragged me out for one song,” she said. “And Lorenz tried, but I turned him down. To be perfectly clear, I don’t see anyone in my class like that. At all.” 

“So then what did you do all night?” Cyril asked, refusing to let himself wonder why she’d emphasized that last bit. 

“I spent most of the night leaning against the wall, drinking my champagne, staring at all the couples swirling around in circles.” 

That didn’t sound like any dancing Cyril had ever seen before. Almyran dancing was quick and rhythmic, with steps that chased the jumping notes of the music. There were group dances and partnered dances, freestyle moves and choreographed routines that mimicked combat, reserved for the soldiers who were the strongest in the battle to perform as solos during celebratory feasts. Cyril had never tried it himself, but if he reached towards the edges of his memory, he could see the silhouettes of his parents dancing together, focused on each other like no one else was there--

“You look confused,” Lysithea said. “Have you ever seen Fodlan-style dancing?” 

Cyril shook his head; Lysithea’s eyes turned mischievous as she looked at him. “Here. I’ll show you. Words won’t do the spectacle justice.”

She stood and stepped to the center of the room; Cyril leaned back against the wall and waited.

“What are you doing?” Lysithea asked. “I can’t demonstrate without a partner. Come over here.” 

“What, you’re going to teach me to read _and_ dance?” Cyril asked, frozen except for his thundering heartbeat.

“C’mon, don’t you want to try?” she asked, grinning at him as he gathered the courage to slowly approach. “Ask me to dance. Don’t hold back. It’s not Fodlan-style dancing if I don’t want to vomit at the pompousness of the invitation.”

Cyril took a deep breath, then held out his hand and put on his best mocking-the-nobles voice, like the one he’d heard Shamir use a couple times when she was venting about her job. “Fair Lysithea, would you make my night shine brighter than the Ethereal Moon by honoring me with a dance?” 

“That was almost too good,” Lysithea said, giggling and looking surprised at the same time. “I mean -- oh, Cyril, it is me who would be honored. We must dance immediately before I grow faint!” 

Cyril held out his arm as Lysithea knelt into an over-exaggerated curtsy. 

“Get ready,” she said, sweeping both arms out to the side before taking his hand in hers. “We’re going to swirl around until we’re dizzy and you’ve used up every line you can think of to sell me on your nobleness and charm. The whole thing sounds ridiculous, right?” 

“Ridiculous,” Cyril echoed, unable to think of any other words as Lysithea’s other hand landed on his shoulder, and his rested gingerly on the small of her back. 

He thought for a second he felt her shiver before she grinned at him and started swaying them in circles to an inaudible song. They spun around her room, their hands getting a little softer and more comfortable with every step; the heat from her fingertips melted down his spine, and he swore the light in the room was a little gentler--

“You’re being too quiet!” Lysithea chided. “Remember, this is the part where you’re supposed to sell me on why you’re the most noble and fantastic of all my dance partners.”

“Right.” Cyril wondered how sincere he could be; he decided to bury his honesty in as many grandiose words as he could conjure. “Why, Lysithea, your smile could light the entire monastery at night, and your eyes sparkle like the Blue Sea Star itself. The time we spend together is more valuable than any bullion. I’d dance with you forever if you’d let me.”

Lysithea giggled. “Oh, Cyril, you’re such a sweet talker. Sweeter than even the Noa Fruit tart you bought me. Are you _sure_ you didn’t do that as my secret admirer?”

It was Cyril’s turn to grin. “It appears you see right through me, Lyssie. Although my admiration is no secret.”

Lysithea’s eyes closed for a moment as she spun them around the room again, before guiding their hands up so she could twirl beneath the canopy of their arms. Cyril tried closing his eyes, too, tried imagining the vast ballroom and the swelling sounds of the orchestra, but his eyes kept blinking, kept demanding to return to the quiet of the dorm room, to the familiar desk and rug and windows. To the place with a warmth the ballroom couldn't match, to the girl who looked prettier in her socks and uniform than anyone else did in an evening gown. 

“For the big finish, you’ll twirl me again, twice in a row,” she said.

Cyril did as he was told, watching as her pale hair fanned out behind her like a veil; Lysithea smiled as she came back to face him. “Then we end on one last swirl,” she said. “I saw Dorothea dancing with Edelgard last night and she pulled her really close afterwards. Edelgard blushed like crazy. I think I’d probably laugh, though. No one’s ever actually tried that with m--”

Cyril didn’t stop to think as he drew her so close to him, he could feel the buttons of her uniform against his stomach. He looked into her eyes and waited for her to laugh, to remind him that they were only pretending. Instead, her cheeks flushed pink as roses; he felt her draw a sharp breath against his ribcage, and her grip on his shoulder got tighter.

“Blushing after all, huh?” he teased. 

Lysithea said nothing, just looked at Cyril with a soft, shy smile he’d never seen before. 

Cyril wondered what would happen if he kissed her: a chaste peck on her cheek, a soft brush of her bangs and a softer dot pressed into her forehead--

But before either of them could move, shouting erupted outside, startling them apart.

“Demonic beasts have been sighted on monastery grounds!” Professor Byleth’s panicked voice rang out from the courtyard. “ Anyone who can fight, come with us to the abandoned chapel. Now!” 

“What the--?” Lysithea’s voice was small and shaky. “Demonic beasts here?”

Cyril grabbed his bow from where he’d set it by her door. “We have to go.”

They raced out of her room together and joined the crowd of students and knights moving as a pack towards the ruins. As they ran, Cyril couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching the commotion. He looked back, just for a moment, and caught a glimpse of the sun against Lady Rhea’s seafoam hair.


	9. stormclouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What she could conjure from the cups of her palms was otherworldly: purple cyclones and spheres of fog, blackened spikes, even a vortex that looked like the moon. Nothing like the fireballs most mages relied upon. Nothing like anything Cyril had ever seen before.  
> //  
> Tragedy strikes the monastery. Cyril and Lysithea go looking for answers.

“Did you see that?” Lysithea whispered.

It was a frail sound, her whisper: cautious and high-pitched, sharp yet muffled beneath the drumbeat of the rain. Quiet little gasps chased the question out of her throat; her chest heaved and her arms trembled as the heels of her palms dug into her knees. Cyril stepped closer, worried she was about to vomit or collapse from exhaustion. He’d never seen her so out of breath -- but then again, he’d also never seen her in battle. 

He was awestruck by her skill; even the weight of the battlefield’s unspeakable tragedy couldn’t quell his admiration. Lysithea was _ferocious_ , dangerous, boldly defiant in the face of her obvious fragility. She folded her tiny frame into scraggly bushes, crouched low behind boulders, fired rapid bursts of magic that sailed through the air like arrows. What she could conjure from the cups of her palms was otherworldly: purple cyclones and spheres of fog, blackened spikes, even a vortex that looked like the moon. Nothing like the fireballs most mages relied upon. Nothing like anything Cyril had ever seen before. 

When they’d arrived on the scene, several of her classmates were already making their way down the center of the ruins, luring as many roving beasts as they could towards their pack. Cyril prepared to join them, ready to take up his usual post at the group's flank, watching for ambushes; instead, Lysithea turned on her heel and ran towards a quiet whimper from the far side of the field. He raced after her without hesitating, and they found themselves isolated, staring down a frightened student and the fast-advancing beast trapping her against the wall. 

Cyril wanted to call for backup, but Lysithea didn’t give him the chance, yanking him by the collar behind a jutting boulder before peering around it, hands glowing.

“Time your shots with mine!” she commanded, and Cyril obeyed, aimed his bow at the beast’s chest and waited, tried not to focus on just how _mortal_ Lysithea looked when she was blanketed in the shadow of an enemy. He briefly worried that her hatred for wasting time would translate to battlefield recklessness, but he should have known better; instead, it manifested as nimble quickness and hypervigilance. And her casting range was unlike anything Cyril had ever seen -- the beast’s swipes couldn’t reach her, but her attacks consistently struck between its glowing eyes, one after another before the monster could so much as recoil. Glittery fragments of Umbral Steel splattered across the dirt; the beast sunk its own claws into its temples and wailed. 

From there, it didn’t take much: his curved shot paired with her Swarm Z combined for the final, lethal blow. But before they could so much as acknowledge their victory came a surprise attack that sent Captain Jeralt crumpling to the ground and Professor Byleth racing, sword drawn, towards him. For a moment, there was light, bright white and blinding, a stranger's ghost-white silhouette at its center. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, as was the captain’s assailant. The professor collapsed as the skies opened like the goddess herself had pulled back their curtains, drenching the ruins and making muddy rivers out of the blood--

“Cyril?” Lysithea asked again. “Please tell me you saw that, too.”

He nodded, but couldn’t conjure any words aside from a hum. 

Some students fell to their knees, letting the field’s puddles clamber up their trousers as they offered prayers for Captain Jeralt’s soul. Others were trying to clean their weapons, holding their swords and lances skyward so the rain might cleanse them of the beast’s black blood. A few idly gathered shards of metal from the ground, faces blank, hands shaking. Only Claude and a lavender-haired boy Cyril didn’t recognize dared approach the professor; everyone else clumped together with their respective houses as they scattered across the paths leading back to the monastery. 

“Hm,” Lysithea murmured, staring across the foggy field towards its furthest corner; raindrops swam in jagged streams down her cheeks and turned her hair to ropes. Cyril followed her gaze until it bumped against Edelgard’s violet eyes, wide and unblinking as she stared at the spot where the harsh light had appeared. Cyril's mind drifted back to the too-sweet teacakes Lysithea had offered him during their very first reading lesson. 

_Edelgard gave them to me_ , she’d said. 

Of the three house leaders, Cyril had only ever spoken to Claude. He frequently saw Dimitri studying late into the night in the library, but if Dimitri ever noticed Cyril in kind, he hadn’t acknowledged it. And all he knew about Edelgard was that she trailed after Professor Byleth more than made sense--she didn’t even teach Edelgard’s class; Professor Manuela did--and that she was rarely spotted without Hubert lurking in the confines of her shadow.

“Do you think she looks like me?” Lysithea asked. “Edelgard, I mean?”

Cyril was usually too busy admiring Lysithea’s appearance to compare it with anyone else’s, but her hair _was_ similar to Edelgard’s, now that she mentioned it. It wasn’t a particularly common hair color, either. They were both pale, both short and skinny. They looked almost like they could be family, although that didn’t make sense. Lysithea was from a small but well-known noble house of the Alliance, and Edelgard was the imperial princess.

Still, the resemblance was undeniable.

“I guess so,” he said. “You guys got a relative in common or something?” 

“No,” Lysithea said.

She started walking instead of elaborating; Cyril leapt over a puddle to catch up. The rain held steady as it splashed into their footprints, drawing steam from the cold dirt like smoke from a pyre. Lysithea was jumpier than usual; every little sound snapped her head left and right like she was on a tether. Jeralt’s death was certainly gruesome, but as far as Cyril knew, Lysithea hadn’t known him personally, and none of the students were strangers to bodies becoming corpses on a battlefield. Was something else haunting her? Had she been reminded of her past again? He thought once more of her words after Remire, replayed them in his mind for the hundredth time and balled his fists in frustration when he couldn’t squeeze any new insight from their husks. 

He wanted to know so badly, wanted to cradle her memories in his hands and draw his axe against her demons. But it wasn't up to him, Cyril reminded himself. She’d tell him, if she ever wanted to-- 

“Hey, slow down, okay?” he said. “It’s dark out.”

“I’m not a child!” Lysithea protested like a reflex, but there was no fight behind her words. She lessened her pace until their strides were identical, stepped closer and closer until his arm knocked into hers. 

Goddess, she was _shaking_ \--

“I know. I’m just worried about you,” he said, slowly wrapping his arm around her quaking shoulder and praying that wasn’t entirely out of line. He didn’t have a cloak to offer, and her uniform was so soaked-through with rain, she must have been freezing to be shaking that hard. “You were so tired after the battle.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Lysithea said, voice thick with something he couldn’t place as she leaned into him. “I’m fine.”

“Does fighting always take this much out of you?” Cyril asked, counting her labored breaths as they rose and fell into his side. 

“I’m fine,” she repeated, ignoring the question; Cyril wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him, or herself. He didn’t know what to say, so he settled for giving her shoulder a soft squeeze before letting the conversation fade into silence for the rest of the walk. 

“I want to look into something,” she said, pulling away from the embrace with something that almost felt like reluctance once they reached her door. “Will you go somewhere with me tomorrow? It can double as a reading lesson.” 

“Where?”

“Linhardt told me about a secret library he found. Banned books, stolen books, information the church wants to hide,” Lysithea said. “They’re lying to everyone, Cyril. About Tomas, and about whatever it was that we saw out there today. I need to know the truth.”

Cyril’s head whipped around, looking for anyone who could’ve heard her. “Don’t just say things like that,” he hissed. “You don’t know who’s listening. Words like that are dangerous if the wrong person overhears.”

“I know,” Lysithea said. “But so is risking my life for battles I don’t understand.” 

She unlocked her dormitory door and motioned for him to follow her inside; Cyril felt sick as her words churned in his stomach. 

_If only it were that easy_ , he considered saying. _If only that were true._

“Where is this library supposed to be?” he asked instead. 

“Abyss,” she said, turning away to rummage through her picnic basket. “I know where the entrance is, but I’ve never tried going by myself. Apparently the professor goes down there all the time. Have you ever been down there?” 

Of course. It had to be Abyss. 

Cyril hadn't thought about Abyss in a long time. Lady Rhea didn't ever send him there for work, and most people affiliated with the church stayed as far away from its citizens as possible. There was a bishop who liked to complain to anyone who'd listen about how Abyss needed to be purged; Cyril knew he was far from the only person in Lady Rhea's cabinet who was offended by Abyss's continued existence. 

Of course, Cyril hadn't known all that when he first came to Garreg Mach. Hadn't known that the first time he found his way onto the pitch-black staircase leading underground--

“I have,” he said slowly. "A long time ago." 

Lysithea turned back around, a tin of candy in her hands and a look of surprise on her face. “Really? What were you doing down there?”

Cyril stared at the floor. "I slept there."

Lysithea’s jaw dropped. “You _slept_ there?”

“When I first got here, I thought it was just a place people who needed shelter could go. So I did, for a few nights. Then some monk found me on a midnight patrol and recognized me. He warned me that Lady Rhea wouldn’t look kindly on someone she’d just taken in wandering around down there. So I stopped. Haven’t been back since.”

“Cyril,” Lysithea said, anger flashing in her eyes, “do you mean to tell me that Lady Rhea never set you up with a place to sleep?”

It was a straightforward question, but forming its answer on his tongue felt like stepping on an anvil. This was the part where he was supposed to defend Lady Rhea. He was supposed to puff his chest and prove his loyalty, was supposed to say something like _she had more important things to think about_ or _I’m perfectly fine fending for myself, I don’t need anyone’s pity_ or even _she saved my life, don’t talk about Lady Rhea like that. This conversation is over._

It wasn’t supposed to matter that she didn't set him up with somewhere to sleep. Wasn't supposed to hurt that all she’d said before dismissing him at the end of his first workday was _I’d like to meet every day at sunrise. Can you do that?_

“Cyril?” Lysithea asked again. 

“No,” he said, so quietly the words almost didn’t pass his lips at all. “She didn’t.” 

Cyril’s heart howled as the words stretched between them in the air. He had never spoken a single damn word aloud against Lady Rhea before. His _thoughts_ had screamed blasphemy into the void of his mind for months, tempted him and taunted him, fed him poison and dripped blood into the haze of his memories. But until that moment, his voice had resisted, his lips had stayed clamped and his throat squeezed tight--

“Where do you sleep now?"

“The library, usually,” he said, and Lysithea’s eyes went wide.

“You can’t be serious,” she exclaimed. “You’ve never asked Lady Rhea for your own quarters? For a shared room, even? And she never bothered to assign you one?”

“I don’t ask her for anything,” Cyril said. “Don’t see how I could. I could never repay her for what she’s already done for me.”

He’d used variations of that line before, plenty of times. It used to be so simple to repeat, used to easily sail off his tongue towards whoever was insinuating Lady Rhea was anything less than a savior. It never used to feel so caustic on his tongue, never used to leave his mouth tasting like blood. 

His own words never felt so much like a _cage_. 

“I’ve heard you say that before, but you never tell the actual story,” Lysithea said, voice shaking like she was squeezing it. “Will you tell me?”

Cyril perked up. Maybe that was it. The day he’d come to Garreg Mach was, by all measures, one of the very happiest days of his life. Maybe reliving it and sharing it with someone he trusted was what he needed. An antidote to all the poison, a bandage for all the blood. It meant burdening Lysithea with one more of his secrets, but she'd asked, and he trusted her to keep it. 

(He'd trust her with his whole life, if only it was his to offer--)

“Lady Rhea rescued me,” he said, “from House Goneril.”

Lysithea’s jaw dropped. “House Goneril? As in, _Hilda's_ House Goneril? You lived there?”

“I worked there, yeah,” he said, ironing the wrinkles out of his voice. He wasn’t sure he’d call his time there _living_. Existing, maybe. Surviving. “I didn’t know Hilda, though, and she doesn’t seem to recognize me. Please don’t tell her.”

Lysithea narrowed her eyes, but nodded, so Cyril kept talking. “I’d been there a year when Lady Rhea came for some special visit. I didn’t know who she was, but the family sure made it seem like a big deal. It was my job to set up her room, and I tried, but it was a last minute request and she arrived before I was done. I wasn’t very strong or fast back then.” 

His voice caught on the last syllable, snapping backwards against his throat like something bit him. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Cyril felt like he was shrinking, falling backwards through time into the weak little kid he used to be before coming to the monastery. Old pangs of hunger growled in his stomach, old scars ached like fresh wounds under his clothes. Goddess, he _hated_ these memories. Hated the year he spent without his bow and axe. Hated the people who knocked him unconscious at Fodlan’s Throat, bound his wrists with rusty chains and dragged him across the border--

“I can’t imagine you not being strong,” Lysithea said. “You can carry whole bundles of logs at once.”

Cyril tried to smile. “Well, I eat every day here. That helps.”

“They didn’t feed you every day?”

“Every couple days, maybe. It was rough. I was sick a lot. But that’s not the point,” he said, scrambling to get back on topic, to get out of the past and back to Garreg Mach. 

Lysithea stayed quiet, sinking down onto her bed and watching Cyril with somber eyes.

“They brought Lady Rhea to her room and found me still in there, and got real mad,” he continued. “I don’t know what came over me, but I panicked, turned to Lady Rhea and asked if she needed any help at her church. And she immediately smiled and said yes, she did. And they looked even madder, but they didn’t fight it. I only realized then how important she was, because I'd never seen them scared to say no to anybody before. Left with her the next day.”

“Thank you, Cyril, for trusting me with this," Lysithea said.

Cyril nodded, falling quiet as the part of the memory he didn’t know how to verbalize played out in his mind. When he first saw the monastery across the horizon, it was dawn, and everything was bathed in the most beautiful pink light. As the sun rose, it caught Lady Rhea’s hair and ringed it with gold; Cyril wasn’t sure which sight was more beautiful. He didn’t care what came next, didn’t care how many days he had left to live; he only cared that for the very first time, his life had a purpose and that purpose was sleeping next to him, serene and benevolent and everything the people of House Goneril were not, everything the soldiers of Almyra were not. Cyril knew nothing about her except that she’d saved him, and he couldn't fathom ever needing to learn a single other thing. 

_My life is yours_ , he swore to Lady Rhea, whispered it between the slats of the convoy, let the spring breeze carry his vow into the glow of the morning. 

It was the promise of a kid who didn’t understand what it meant to have a future; the vow of a child who believed he would die before he grew up. Was he truly meant to keep it no matter what she had him do? No matter what wars she fought? Would his debt truly never be repaid until Lady Rhea claimed the last of his days in the name of her life, her church, her legacy?

That child would have said yes, without hesitation, without fear or regret. 

But Cyril wasn’t that child anymore. 

“I’ll go with you,” he said, not letting himself finish the thought. “To Abyss.” 

“Thank you,” Lysithea said quietly. “We’ll be careful. I just need to know.”

“Yeah,” Cyril said. “I think maybe I do, too.” 

***

“You two lost?” snapped a roguish-looking guard as Cyril and Lysithea emerged from the passageway into Abyss.

“We’re here to visit the library. Which way is it?” Lysithea asked. 

The guard sneered. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the library for Academy brats is back in the monastery. Scram.”

Lysithea lurched forward towards the guard, dragging Cyril behind her by the wrist. “What did you just say? We are not brats! I’ll have you know--”

“Whoa, whoa!” an extremely tall, bizarrely-dressed man rushed out from a side passageway, stepping between Lysithea and the guard. “If it isn’t the little lady of House Ordelia. Don’t yell at our guard, okay? He’s the only one we got.”

“Balthus, I told you to stop calling me that,” Lysithea snapped. 

“Sorry, sorry," Balthus said, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. "Who’s your pal, pal?”

Cyril offered a curt nod. “Name’s Cyril.” 

“Oh, _you’re_ Cyril!” Balthus grinned. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Cyril asked.

“It's a funny story! The last time I ran into the little lady, she was all smiley and happy-looking. And she never smiles!” Balthus exclaimed; Lysithea shot him a withering glare that he didn't seem to notice. “I asked her what happened and she started yelling at me about some guy named Cyril who was, and I quote, _much nicer, smarter, and more reliable than you’ll ever be, Balthus! And more mature! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m actually going to go meet up with him now!_ ”

Cyril wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed, flattered, or amused. But this Balthus seemed pretty easygoing--and his impression of Lysithea’s indignant stomping had been scarily, hilariously spot-on--so Cyril went with amusement, stifling a laugh as he turned towards Lysithea. “When was this?” 

Lysithea let out a yelp. “I -- We don’t have time for this! We’re trying to find the library. Not that I’d expect you to know where it is, Balthus--” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, pal! Yuri sends me there for books all the time. It’s right here.” Balthus motioned down the hallway. 

Lysithea let out a huff and grabbed Cyril’s wrist, dragging him away. 

“Have fun on your study date,” Balthus called after them. “Come hang with me at the Wilting Rose when you’re done!”

"Absolutely not!" Lysithea yelled over her shoulder; Cyril didn't bother stifling his laugh that time.

“I’m sorry about him,” Lysithea said as they reached the library. “He owes a debt to my parents, so I’ve made his acquaintance since coming to the academy. Just forget every single thing he said, okay?”

It was absolutely not the time to tease her. Cyril realized this, in theory. They were somewhere they weren't supposed to be, investigating the very church that gave Cyril a home and Lysithea an education and a noble title. But his heart was fluttering away in his chest, his mind wouldn’t quit imagining how she sounded saying all those nice things about him to someone without prompting. And she was biting her lower lip in that way that meant she was embarrassed, but actually kind of happy--

She was so damn _cute_ , Cyril couldn’t resist.

“So I was right,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his. “You really do only smile at me.”

“Cyril!” Lysithea sputtered. She leaned against the wall, one hand flying to her face, covering her mouth as her cheeks flared pink. “Honestly! The things you say sometimes.”

“Know what else?” he asked, stepping close enough to press his forearm into the wall above her shoulder. “I think you're trying not to smile right now.”

“I -- I am _not_!” Lysithea protested, ducking under Cyril’s arm and escaping through the doorway into the library.


	10. trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her words from the day she declared she would teach him to read stirred from their slumber in his chest, wound themselves around his heart like ribbons and squeezed--
> 
>  _And I won’t be around to read things for you forever_.  
> //  
> Lysithea shares a secret of her own; Cyril continues his search for answers.

Abyss’s library was nothing like Garreg Mach’s: dank instead of throat-pricklingly dry, shining green instead of tan in the dim lantern-light. It was simultaneously tall and deep, and while the main level seemed empty, occasional garbled echoes crept up the stairs from the floors below. Cyril and Lysithea wasted no time diving into the shelves, combing through what felt like hundreds of books that were all some combination of faded, burnt, and waterlogged. They stacked anything that seemed remotely strange into haphazard piles at their feet, but as the hours passed, all the tattered bindings started to blur together. Everything felt suspicious but nothing felt damning; Cyril wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Were the answers they sought really wedged between faded spines, dropped behind overstuffed shelves and abandoned on rusted metal carts? 

Would they even know their own answers when they saw them? 

“Look at this,” Lysithea called. “All of these books have removal notices, with Seteth’s signature. I wonder how they ended up down here.”

Cyril made his way across the floor and peered over her shoulder. “Could it have been Tomas?” he asked. “He used to complain about missing books, but maybe that was just for show. Maybe he was ferrying them down here in secret instead.”

Lysithea nodded. “Maybe. But why? Does that mean he had allies down here?”

“I don’t know,” Cyril said. “Doesn’t seem like the kinda thing Lady Rhea would let happen, but then again, she hasn’t exactly been--”

He stopped himself before he said something else out loud he couldn’t take back, before he added even more words into his pile of sins. Then again, how much could a few errant words even matter, when his presence below ground was more honest than any empty lies could mask? When his newfound thirst for knowledge was usurping his hunger for survival? But maybe that wasn’t true either, not exactly. More than ever, Cyril wanted desperately to survive, not just until tomorrow but until adulthood, until independence, until he could carve his own path and find his own little place in the world. It was something he’d never dared to dream of before; the only thing he was supposed to want was to live under the rule of another, for as long as they allowed him breath, allowed him work, allowed him space-- 

No more. 

Even without his answers in hand, Cyril wanted to earn his future by his own strength instead of coaxing it from someone else’s mercy. Wanted to build his world with his own blades, his own bricks, his own dreams. And if he survived long enough to truly live for someone else, he wanted that someone to live for him in kind; a partnership of equals, a bond based not on debt and fear, but on trust.

Maybe even on love.

“You’ve changed since I met you,” Lysithea said, like she’d heard the rest of the unspoken sentence. Like she could see the roiling storm in Cyril’s mind, like she could sense his uncertainty and feel the prickles of his fear; like maybe she knew what he wanted and dreamed of a world like that, too--

“Have I?” Cyril asked, but for all of his sacrilege, he was smiling. 

Recklessness never felt so right--

A sudden crash sounded from the floor below them, like a weapon clashing against heavy armor. Cyril snapped to attention as Lysithea went pale, eyes widening and arms shaking hard enough for the book in her hands to fall to the ground. 

“Gh-- ghost?” she gasped. “Ghost!” 

Cyril was significantly more worried about spies than ghosts, but he dove for cover all the same, taking Lysithea with him into the shadows as he leapt. He blocked her back with a wide pillar and her front with his chest, peered around the pillar’s side and prayed his face was obscured from whomever was approaching, palmed the handle of his axe and braced himself for the inevitable fight. If he could just send them sprawling with his first strike, then Lysithea could cast from a safe distance and maybe, somehow, they could escape--

“Yikes, Teach,” an all-too-familiar voice echoed. 

“Is that _Claude_?” Lysithea murmured into Cyril’s shoulder.

Cyril nodded against the top of her head; Lysithea’s hands dug into his sides and he momentarily forgot how to exhale. 

“Be careful where you wave that thing,” Claude said. “You almost took out the staircase with us still on it.” 

“I thought I heard someone,” Professor Byleth said plainly. “Abyss is dangerous.”

“So is swinging your damn relic in the dark,” another voice chimed in -- a voice Cyril remembered hearing once before, on his accidental foray into the Goddess Tower. “But that settles it, hm?”

“It does,” Professor Byleth said. “We will hear her out. Thank you, Yuri.” 

“Don’t thank me until you’ve made your choice, friend,” the voice--Yuri--replied, a dark laugh chasing the words into the air. “And even then, don’t thank me for something that could send you straight into the jaws of a bloody war.”

 _War_. 

Cyril pressed his palm into the mottled stone of the pillar. War was his past resurrected, his legacy foretold. It chased him from Almyra and dragged him into Fodlan; it was only a matter of time before it came for him at the monastery, before it swept him away with the headwaters of his fledgling path.

“What, you won’t join us on the battlefield if we accept her terms?” Claude chided, but Cyril recognized the arch in his tone. Lysithea did too, from the way she tensed against Cyril’s chest, the way she leaned a little closer to the commotion by way of poking her chin into his shoulder, trying to see.

Yuri laughed again, shorter and sharper this time. “If it seems like you’ll win, I might. But my allegiance doesn’t come for free unless it benefits my people. No matter how cute you two are,” he added smugly. 

“I do not expect it to,” Byleth said. “You should be present when we speak with her. We each have a choice to make.” 

Their voices fell silent as they came into view at the top of the staircase. Claude and Professor Byleth walked together, and the lavender-haired man from the ambush at the chapel--Yuri, apparently--trailed a pace behind. His eyes were even colder than Claude’s, dressed up with glitter but narrowed into blades, flicking back and forth across the room like twin sentries as he passed. Cyril tried to even out his breathing, to calm his pulse and quiet his mind, tried to process what they’d heard and ignore the sparks he felt skipping across his stomach, the stones he felt sinking within it--

When they were gone, Lysithea started to wriggle out from beneath his arms; Cyril leapt backwards when he realized he was still shielding her. They looked everywhere but at each other for a few taut moments: Lysithea’s gaze oscillated from her shoes to the staircase; Cyril’s eyes scrambled over the shelves, and he pulled out a random book just to hold something in his hands. _Encyclopedia of Fodlan’s Insects_ , read the title, although it was awfully thin for a reference text. It was damaged, too, even moreso than the rest of the books they’d reviewed; shoddy hand-stitches were all that kept the clothbound cover bound to its warped pages. 

He started to put it back, but Lysithea caught his hand. “Keep that. We can use it for a reading lesson.”

Cyril meant to simply nod, to do as he was told and add the book to their already-tall stack and turn away to collect himself, but he felt his mouth opening instead, felt a dangerous question taking shape on his tongue and prying open his clenched jaw. 

“Were they talking about Lady Rhea?” he heard himself ask, gripping the book like it was his tether to the ground. 

Lysithea looked surprised. “No,” she said, dropping her voice and stepping closer to Cyril. “I’m fairly certain they were talking about Edelgard.”

“Why Edelgard?” Cyril asked.

Lysithea leaned back against the bookshelf, twisting a misbehaving lock of hair around her thumb. “It’s hard to explain, but she is someone I understand very well. If she had a goal she wanted to achieve, I believe she’d strike as quickly as she could, and pursue it through any means necessary. Even violent ones, if they would make it quicker.”

Dread climbed up the steps of Cyril’s spine, pinched at his nerves and nipped at his neck. There it was again: that somber tone that lurked in the underbelly of Lysithea’s voice, that bared its teeth whenever they lingered too long on the subject of her shrouded past.

“Why’s that?” he asked warily. 

Lysithea’s chin dipped to meet her chest, hair falling into her face. “Because I think she’s like me. I don’t believe she has any time to waste.”

The sentences scattered with a thud at Cyril’s feet; wisps of memories that suddenly made sense rose like steam through the heavy air. He remembered watching Lysithea from the window as she heaved by the convoys for the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion, remembered how her breathing was labored after they fought the beasts in the ruins, remembered how her exhaustion persisted throughout their walk back to the monastery. Her words from the day she declared she would teach him to read stirred from their slumber in his chest, wound themselves around his heart like ribbons and squeezed--

 _And I won’t be around to read things for you forever_.

Everything Cyril wanted to say caught at once in his throat, squeezed at his windpipe and slashed at his jaw. He had never been more scared of Lysithea's secrets, but he would carry anything she asked him to shoulder, would face anything she asked him to face, would stay by her side for as long as she’d let him. So he took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and asked the question he’d snipped at the stem so many times before, let it bloom with all the softness she deserved and all the strength he could muster--

“Lyssie, are you sick?” 

“In a sense,” she said, so softly Cyril would’ve missed it if he hadn’t seen her lips move.

Before he could say anything further, she was stepping backwards and turning away, pulling a canvas bag from the pocket of her uniform and plucking _Fodlan’s Insects_ from his hands. “But we can’t talk about that here. Come on. Help me gather these, would you?” 

***

They walked the whole of the way back to Lysithea’s dorm in silence, wordlessly stepping out of their shoes and exhaling in unison when the door was locked behind them. Cyril set the overstuffed bag on her desk and started unloading it; Lysithea busied herself with making tea and digging under her bed for tucked-away sweets. It wasn’t until they sat, knees knocking into each other as they leaned back against the side of her bed, that Cyril summoned the courage to speak again.

“We can just read,” he offered. “I’m sorry for prying. Ya really don’t have to--”

“No,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “It’s better that you find out from me. People talk.”

Cyril reached over and squeezed her hand. Just once, and just for a moment. Just to let her know he was there. “Okay.” 

She shifted almost imperceptibly closer to him, let her hand go limp in the cup of his palm and taking another deep breath before starting to talk. “I have two Crests.” 

She let the statement sit as though it were a revelation. The truth was that Cyril didn't know much about Crests, although he had been taught that to nobles, they were considered gifts from the goddess herself. So it was a little surprising to hear that having two Crests was a bad thing, but it was more than clear from the anguish in her voice that to Lysithea, this wasn't any sort of blessing. He nodded in response before remembering that Lysithea still had her eyes closed -- but his voice was clumsy in his throat, his words jumbled and his tongue dry. So he didn’t try to talk, just squeezed her hand again and stroked her thumb with his. 

It wasn’t enough, but it was the only comfort he could offer. 

“Dark mages took over House Ordelia when I was young, and experimented on me and all of my siblings,” Lysithea continued, tapping her toes against the floor as she spoke. “For years, we were imprisoned, subjected to all matter of painful blood experiments.”

She looked at him then, tourmaline eyes wavering in the waning light of the evening, like she was waiting for him to doubt her or to press her for more information. But Cyril didn’t need the details of her agony when he could see its scars etched into her expression, could watch its hungry shadow creeping across her face. She’d already given him the full story with her gaze, so he held it with the respect and the reverence it deserved, memorized its wispy edges and vowed with his own that nothing she told him could drive him away, that nothing she shared could ever change the way he looked at her. 

As she spoke again, her voice stretched like yarn between them, rigid and thin and starting to fray. “Bodies can’t bear the weight of two crests for very long. My lifespan has been vastly shortened. I am mostly okay, for now.” 

_That won’t last_ , she didn’t say, but Cyril heard it in the echo of her breath, felt in the twitch of her fingers against his palm. He had no idea how he was supposed to feel, except that he was furious at her captors but in awe of her drive and her honesty, of the way she could study the very magic that was used against her own body and cast it against her foes in battle. He nodded again, and this time, she could see him, offering up a little nod of her own before continuing. 

“In the end, I was the only one to survive the torment,” she said. “Their only success. Except, perhaps, for Edelgard. Since meeting her, I have wondered if my torment was something of a test run for hers. Although I still don’t understand why someone royal-born would need to undergo blood reconstruction, it is the only explanation I can come up with for my own past.”

 _Sometimes the past has no explanation_ , Cyril almost replied, but he bit his tongue and reconsidered. It was hardly the time for the platitudes he used to repeat to himself like hymns, for the hollow thoughts meant to drain the meaning from everything in his life that he couldn’t accept. The truth was more complicated, he thought. Sometimes the explanation didn’t make sense to anyone but the perpetrator. Sometimes powerful forces were invisible to their pawns. 

Sometimes people were just cruel.

“Is that why you think she’s going to wage war?” he asked instead. 

Lysithea hummed to herself. “I’m not sure about that yet.”

She leaned closer still to Cyril, letting their twined hands fall into his lap as she smiled, sad and small but no less beautiful. “You know, I usually hate talking about this. And I hate people’s reactions even more.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “Everyone treats me like a child, fretting over me, thinking less of me as soon as they find out. But you just _listened_. Nobody ever just listens.” 

“You always listen to me,” Cyril said. “Figure the least I could do is the same. Don’t need me telling ya how to feel about your own story.”

Lysithea let out a melancholy little laugh, low as the church’s bell against his ears. “You’re really special to me, Cyril. No matter what happens from here, I-- I’m glad I met you.”

Cyril smiled, even as his heart was shattering behind his sternum. 

_I love you_ , he didn’t let himself say. “You’re real special to me too.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking their forgotten tea and letting the heavy secret dissipate into the last of its steam. The last light of the sunset faded from the window, but the room was somehow warmer for it. Or maybe that was from Lysithea’s hand, still nestled safely in Cyril’s, gentle behind his knuckles but defiant in its grip. They were ringed in sorrow by their words and their fates, but Cyril didn’t care how much it hurt. He couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. 

Couldn’t imagine feeling like this about anyone else ever again.

“Hey,” Lysithea finally said. “I promised you a reading lesson, right? Where’s that book about insects that you found?”

Cyril considered protesting, but a withering glare from Lysithea stopped him in his tracks; he knew better than to argue when she looked at him like that. He stood, dug the requested book out of the pile on her desk, picked it up by its spine and promptly watched it fall apart. Damn thing must’ve been even older than it looked-- 

But what scattered on the ground looked nothing like an encyclopedia of insects. There were no illustrations, no diagrams, no complicated technical names. Lysithea reached for the pages and started flipping through them; Cyril watched as the color slowly drained from her face. He tried to read over her shoulder but couldn’t parse the ancient-looking script. 

“Goddess,” she murmured.

An entirely different sort of dread took root in Cyril’s bones. “What does it say?” 

“It’s a detailed list of technological and scientific advancements that the Archbishop banned,” Lysithea replied. “Distance viewer, metal-mold printing machine, flammable black water. Even human autopsies.”

“Lady Rhea banned all those things?” Cyril asked. 

Lysithea shrugged. “Well, there’s no date, and this looks rather old. So perhaps it was one of her predecessors. But autopsies aside, I’ve never heard of any of these. Perhaps the ban is still in place.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Cyril mumbled. “Kinda seems like something she would do.”

If Lysithea heard him, she didn’t question him; instead, she picked up another page and kept reading. “Flammable black water was banned because, among other things, it ‘could be used tactically by those lacking magical ability.’”

“So by commoners,” Cyril said. “By the powerless.” 

Lysithea grit her teeth. “Same goes for the human autopsies. ‘If medical science overtakes faith-based healing magic, it would destabilize the foundation of the church.’ The distance viewer ‘lessens the mystery of the goddess,’ and the metal-mold printing machine ‘risks intensifying disparity between church branches, as well as being useless to illiterate commoners--’”

“Illiterate commoners,” Cyril repeated, spitting the bitter words into his teacup and swirling them under the leaves. “Illiterate commoners like me?”

Fury coiled in his stomach; acid clambered up his throat. He heard his own words, once spat in anger at Hilda, hissing in his ears as they filled his mouth with gauze. 

_Wherever you go, you see people in power keep the weak ones down_.

Goddess, what a fool he’d been.

But at least he didn't have to wonder anymore. 

***

Cyril was right on time, as always, for his sunrise meeting with Lady Rhea. Weekday, weekend, holiday, didn’t matter -- for two damn years, he’d met with Lady Rhea every morning and did his job every day, whatever it turned out to be. Whatever blood he had to scrub. Whatever messes he had to clean. Whatever secrets he had to keep. He kept his head down, worked hard, ate another meal and slept another night at Garreg Mach. Never questioned Lady Rhea or the tasks she assigned him. Never wondered what she was working on when she was scribbling away in her notebook. Put her on a pedestal so he couldn’t look into her eyes, couldn’t see her power-hungry soul without being blinded by sunlight. Pretended like he’d found his home and his purpose in a world that was designed to keep him weak and keep him down. Promised his life to someone who kept his belly full and his hands unchained, but starved his mind and shackled his heart--

“Good morning, Lady Rhea,” he said softly, bowing deeply as he begged his expression to stay neutral. “What needs doing today?”

“Cyril,” she said. “Is it true that the professor promoted you to wyvern rider?”

Cyril wasn’t expecting that question. She had--months ago--but at the time, it barely registered, since he was never taken on training missions anymore. Once upon a time, he would’ve excitedly shared such news with Lady Rhea the day it happened, undoubtedly accompanied by an _I’ve gotta protect you_ or an _everything I do is for you_ \--

“Yeah. I’m not neglecting my job, though, don’t ya worry,” he said, voice ringing hollow in his throat. 

“I’m not worried,” Lady Rhea said. “In fact, I’m glad to know you’re prepared for war.”

The professor’s conversation in Abyss rang in his ears, Edelgard’s face flashed across his mind, and the phantom warmth of Lysithea’s hands twined between his fingers. Cyril thought of the explosives still nestled in their crate in Lady Rhea’s chambers, thought of the flammable black water banned by her predecessor’s edict, thought of the atrocities carried out for the sake of the Crests her goddess gave out, and _seethed_.

“Is the church going to war?” he asked. 

Lady Rhea laughed, a limpid sound that smacked into the ground like ice from a roof. “I certainly hope not,” she said. “But there will always be those who wish evil upon us. And such sinners must be struck down before they can act. I have lost too much to war already.”

Cyril nodded, tried to stifle the shivers from the glacial chill in her voice; Lady Rhea knelt, placed a hand on his shoulder, caged him in her cold-eyed gaze and smiled. 

“Tell me, Cyril, do you think you could handle striking down those you know, if you had to?”

Cyril’s blood turned to slush in his veins.

“I’d defend you against anybody, Lady Rhea,” he replied, but for the first time since arriving at the monastery, he wasn’t sure he would.


End file.
